


Eyes Opened to Darkness

by Scarlet_Stalking_Abroad



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:44:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Stalking_Abroad/pseuds/Scarlet_Stalking_Abroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the Shah's orders, this was his punishment — a reward for a selfless act in the face of seeming betrayal. Erik had always reveled in shadow, but he never expected the light to abandon him in return. This darkness had been forced upon him; this was the reality of unending night. E/C eventually</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

April 1881, Paris

Christine was confused. 

She was slowly walking through a well-lit hallway of the Palais Garnier, looking for the number the indicated the managers’ office. She had found the note on her dresser as she changed out of her costume that evening — requesting a meeting with her at precisely seven o’ clock. 

This part of the Opera House was unfamiliar to her. Her position in the chorus had been arranged by the musical director; there had been no need for a direct audience with the managers. Christine doubted if she had ever even spoken a word to either one of them. Why now would they request her presence?

Reaching the number indicated on the note, she knocked with slight trepidation. There was no response. Christine looked down to the note, making sure that it was the correct room. Perhaps they had written down the wrong number and she was at the wrong location. However, both the ornate design of the door — the intricate craftsmanship a direct reflection of the chamber’s prominence — and the matching number, spoke otherwise. 

Christine knocked again, putting slightly more force behind it. Sure enough, she heard the sound of a chair being shifted and footsteps as they neared. The door opened with the familiar face of Monsieur Debienne. He was an older man, with wrinkles derived from scowls. However, at the moment, he appeared quite welcoming, if perhaps slightly reserved. 

“Ah! Mademoiselle Daaé, if I am correct? I do not believe we have formally been introduced, although surely you must know who I am. Monsieur Reyer was rather enthusiastic when he mentioned your addition to the company,” he claimed softly as he gave a small bow. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival,” he continued, moving aside to allow Christine room to enter.

Christine was at a complete loss for the etiquette of the situation, and simply bowed her head politely in response. She forced herself to annunciate, yet still spoke haltingly, “Yes… Monsieur Debienne. I just received your missive and I am quite curious of its reason. I sincerely hope that I did not keep you waiting long.”

“Not at all, my dear,” Debienne replied, leading the way into the office, as Christine lingered a step or two behind. “Not for a moment did we doubt your punctuality.”

Christine followed cautiously into the large expanse of the room, well… rooms. The front area appeared to be a small sitting area, with the walls lined with shelves of books and filed documents. Through another doorway was the actual office.

“Right this way, mademoiselle. I apologize for my apparent lack of manners in withholding the purpose of this conference, but our guest insisted upon preserving his anonymity.” 

Christine nodded, stepping tentatively into the room, for the first time able to discern her audience. 

Christine wasn’t surprised to recognize the other manager, Monsieur Poligny, but was curious at the presence of an older, foreign-looking gentleman with whom he was currently conversing. His exotic dark skin was such a contrast to the pale complexion that was so fashionable among Parisian elites. His green eyes were striking in their bold, unusual color. 

Christine watched as they finished their conversation, the foreign man forfeiting a small envelope to the willing grasp of the manager. 

Noticing Christine’s presence in the room, he turned to look directly at her. When their eyes suddenly met, Christine caught in her observance, she nearly drew back at the intensity in their emerald depths, and abashed, quickly averted her eyes. Objectively, Christine thought that he must be a handsome man to those of his native country, and perhaps to many outside of it. Glimpsing up shyly, she saw that he remained waiting politely behind one of the leather-bound chairs of the office. He bore an expression she could not quite discern.

He looked familiar, Christine realized. Admittedly, she saw many faces that infiltrated the Opera House both during rehearsals and performances: patrons, members of the orchestra, audience members, stage workers, and the various individuals that took to pervading the thousands of rooms and seemingly endless hallways. Many faces notable in a quick moment, but easily forgettable. 

Finally, she recognized him as the mysterious man that she had seen, several times, perusing the various corridors of the opera house; the elusive figure that she had once seen occupying Box 5. It had been noteworthy, she remembered, for it had been the only time she had seen the box taken. 

“Messieurs,” she cautioned, breaking the silence. She curtsied, her eyes darting between the three men in the room. Monsieur Poligny started to approach, both hands stretched out in greeting, taking both of hers in return. 

“Ah! Mademoiselle!” He rejoiced. For as reservedly as Monsieur Debienne had received her, Poligny was equivalently boisterous, although Christine could recognize the touch of false levity. He raised one her hands up to his lips, however releasing it before it made contact. She stepped back, blushing, wary of the display of familiarity.

He held on to one of her arms, pulling her farther into the room as he spoke. “I must say that the chorus has been absolutely entrancing as of late! But alas, let me introduce you to the coordinator of this little meeting and a very important friend of the Palais Garnier — Monsieur Nadir Khan.”

At Poligny’s gesture, Christine did not miss the sly look in Debienne’s eyes. She was not so naive. She had heard some of the gossip that infiltrated the female sphere of the company, regarding wealthy patrons, but she had done her best to ignore it. She prayed that it was not the case here. 

Christine shifted her gaze to the dark-skinned man, examining the finely tailored suit that he wore, accompanied by a wool cap that covered most of the dark expanse of his hair, touched with gray at the sides. He did not seem the type to proposition young members of the chorus under the guise of support of the arts. Appearances could be deceiving, however. 

As he stepped forward, she looked politely to the floor, remembering the etiquette that had been drilled into her from a young age. She did not wish to appear uncouth and waited for one of the managers to make formal introductions. 

“Let me introduce one of our members of the Garnier’s infamously captivating chorus, Mademoiselle Daaé. We welcomed her expertise into our ranks six months ago, I believe.” He looked to Christine. She nodded shallowly in affirmation. 

“I’m sure it is a pleasure for her to meet your acquaintance,” Monsieur Poligny finished softly. Christine shifted the weight on her feet, finally managing the courage to lift her gaze to his penetrating eyes. 

They seemed to soften, however, as Monsieur Khan bowed deeply. “The pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle. Although I would prefer it immensely if you would call me Nadir, or Monsieur Nadir if that is more appropriate. Surnames are not a fixture in my homeland. Khan is more of a title, really, a suffix, rather than a name, and I still find its sole use odd.” 

If Christine was slightly uncomfortable with the use of his given name, she did not show it. Instead, she was curious at the sound of his foreign accent, not terribly strong, although noticeable, that accompanied his smooth, deep voice. She wondered where exactly he hailed from. She found her voice, letting her curious nature win over her propriety, “And where is that homeland, if I may presume?”

“Persia, Mademoiselle — the capital of Tehran, to be precise. I served as the Daroga of Mazenderan for quite some time.” He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for he clarified, “Daroga is the Persian title for chief of police… Another title to which I am commonly referred.”

Christine caught what appeared to be a wistfulness cast over his eyes. After a short pause, he continued, an amused glint to his eyes. “However, I did not ask you here to discuss the specifics of my upbringing — I do have some business to discuss.” 

Christine tried to glance over at the managers for a hint at what such business would entail, but realized that they had at some point vacated the office. Their absence and her current companion’s congenial presence mitigated a portion of her reservations. She bit her lip, “If you will have me call you by your given name, I must insist that you call me Christine in return.”

“I would abide by your wishes, if not for the nature of this discussion, Mademoiselle, for I am but a messenger in this accord, and would never wish to project any unwarranted familiarity — Here, why don’t we have a seat.”

Christine sat down in one of the proffered chairs. It was nicely upholstered, if rather stiff. Across from her, Nadir was politely crossed his legs as he reclined. “I would offer you a drink, but I admit that both those managers’ preference and location of refreshment escape me.”

“It is quite all right,” Christine looked down to her hands, rubbing them together. “I would rather prefer for you to outright with the purpose of this rendezvous. My guardian expects me home before too late an hour.” 

Until now, Christine had not thought of how Mama Valerius would react to her late return. Although not her birth mother, the woman had been the steadying force for Christine throughout these last few years — ever since her Papa had died suddenly of illness. It was Mama’s encouragement that had directed to continue her musical education, even when despair had threatened to overwhelm her. While the sadness remained, it no longer wholly consumed her. Still, she yearned to return to the security and sanctity of the small flat she shared with the elderly woman. 

Nadir interrupted her thoughts, “Do not worry, your guardian has been properly informed of your current whereabouts; you will be properly escorted when the time comes.”   
“Oh! Thank you, then.” Something suddenly came to Christine’s mind. “Why did you initially request that I did not know that it was you who wished to meet with me?” She cautioned, not wanting to insult the man. 

Nadir sighed in response, “Not for any indecent reason, I attest. I simply did not know what sort of unpleasant rumors you may have caught as to my character — I had hoped not to frighten you away. An older, foreign man lurking around an opera house could appear improper to some, especially when beseeching the presence of a young woman. This meeting is not of such a nature.”

Christine almost let out a sigh of relief, but refrained. “You needn’t have worried, Monsieur… Nadir.” Christine paused, but the name felt natural on her lips. Once the initial awkwardness faded, she found the man easy to talk to, the foreign lilt to his voice welcoming instead of deterrent. “I am not one to indulge in gossip. Although, I must admit that I do recognize you from your… lurking.”

“Then I must apologize if I, at any point, made you uncomfortable.” Christine watched as Nadir straightened his posture, and she knew that finally, her confusion would be mollified. 

“Not at all,” Christine assured him. “Although, I now wonder why it is only you that I have seen in Box 5.” The Corps de Ballet often buzzed with chatter as to the mystery of the box, connoting various schemes and scandals. One girl had once even gone so far as to suggest it was haunted. Christine had thought the notion ridiculous, and had kept quiet on the matter. 

“It is easy not to be seen in,” Christine heard him voice softly, interrupting her thoughts. So softly, in fact, that she was sure that he had not meant for her to have heard it. 

“What was that?” She asked.

“Oh, nothing. I simply hold season tickets for the box — I am quite friendly with the managers, and they were willing to relinquish the seats at a discounted fee. It has a rather nice view of the stage, and I am quite fond of the performances.” 

Christine noticed that he was starting to appear rather uneasy, as if he was skirting around a certain topic. She also doubted the logistics in procuring seats for the entire season, for every performance. Nobody could ever be willing to sit through every performance that the Company had.

She enquired further, “Just you? Occupy the entire box? Do you expect me to believe that you attend every performance, spending an exorbitant amount of money to sit in a box that could comfortably sit half a dozen people?”

“Well,” he started. “No. I do not attend every performance, but…” He paused, thinking. Christine watched him carefully, her eyebrows furrowing as her confusion returned. Quite unexpectedly, she saw as he shook his head with a small smile, muttering something under his breath that she could not quite make out.

He came back to himself and continued, although not before pulling out his watch to check the time, “I find that we have miraculously found ourselves off topic once again. I must apologize for the interruption.”

“I must admit that the blame rests with me,” Christine assured him. She had, after all, been the one to ask the leading questions. She was surprised, honestly, for it was quite unlike her. She never wanted to draw attention to herself and was seen as a quiet sort. Something in this man, however, peaked her curiosity. “I couldn’t help myself from asking questions— I apologize.”   
“No need to apologize. I was only too willing to comply in answering them. As a gentleman, I believe I must shoulder some responsibility as well.” Nadir granted with a small smile. He reached into another pocket of his suit, pulling out an envelope. He leaned forward, holding it out to her. 

“What is this?” Christine asked as she took the envelope between her fingers. She noted the fine quality of the parchment before pulling open the small seal.

Nadir did not answer her, but instead gestured for her to examine the contents. Pulling several pieces of paper from the envelope, she recognized the parallel lines of staff paper. Inscribed onto it were scores of composition, although the penmanship was rough and several ink blotches littered the white expanse. Looking closer, she realized that the ink, as well as the lines, were not quite inscribed, but instead had a raised texture. She flitted her fingers over it, examining the pattern.

Sight reading the music, she recognized the notes, not as a song, but as a vocal exercise, easing its way into both soaring high notes and the receding back into a more comfortable registers. There was no words to clarify the meaning of the composition. However, on the bottom, right hand corner, she saw, in what appeared to be shaky handwriting: “Release your jaw.”

“I do not understand.” Christine murmured, holding the parchment out, beseeching Nadir to explain. Nadir reached over, taking the sheet music from Christine. After glancing at its contents, Christine was surprised when he laughed in response. “Monsieur?”

"Cryptic as always, aren't you?" He muttered. He placed the parchment on the table, leaning back in his chair. He took a deep breath. ”You see, Mademoiselle — I have a friend who is very interested in you." 

At Christine's expression of shock, he quickly clarified, shaking his hands, as if intending to erase the insinuation. "I mean to say, in your voice. He is very interested in your voice — He told me that he included a few exercises, if you did indeed choose to accept his offer, but I had hoped that he had included a letter explaining his desire to tutor you. However, it seems that he wishes to leave that explanation to me."

“Tutor? Me?" Christine exclaimed. Who would want to tutor her? She was simply a member of the chorus, and was contented with the general applause bestowed upon the production… and the general disinterest the audience bestowed upon her, no matter the praise the managers lauded her when trying to gain her favor. She knew and was comfortable with her role in the Company. 

“He is a… regular… at the Opera House.” Nadir paused, as if trying to decide the direction of his proposal before he confused her further. She was already quite overwhelmed as it was. “He has heard you singing and heard your potential. Then, one day, he was ordering me to the managers’ office, shoving that envelope into my hand, telling me to request an audience with you — and thus, here I am. ”

“How could he have heard me? I am simply part of the chorus, Monsieur; no one could possibly be able to distinguish me from such a sea of voices.”

“My… friend has a very acute ear, perhaps more keen than any man before him. I admit even my suspicion when he singled you out during a performance, for all could hear was, as you said, a sea of voices. Over the years, however, I have learned never to doubt the musical prowess of my friend — You would be astounded to witness even a fraction of his genius.” 

Christine was in shock, unsure of how to respond. She had joined the conservatoire and earned her spot in the chorus in respect to her father’s memory, and because it was the only profession that she had any semblance of talent. Yes, she was a member of the chorus, and while the lyrics and melodies came from her lips, she could not remember the last time she had truly been able to sing — with spirit in her heart and passion in her voice. And now, to have some mysterious man request permission to give her lessons…

“Your friend… what is his name?” 

“His name is Erik,” Nadir replied.

An unusual name for a Parisian, Christine noted. Perhaps they had more in common than she realized.

“Just Erik? And if I may ask… where does he hail from?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle. Just Erik. It appears we share the same disregard for last names, although for very different reasons. It is of no consequence; you would not recognize the name if I had one to give.” Nadir again reached for the papers of the table and urged for her to take them. “As for where he comes from… I believe he was born in France, but has spent as much time within its borders as he has without. A man of many influences, I would say, with little patience for the fashionable Parisian attitude, if that is what you worry.”

Although not the exact reasoning for her question, Christine was still relieved to learn that her potential tutor would not think less of her due to status, “Not at all, Monsieur. I was simply curious — Erik is a name I am much more used to attached to a citizen of my home country. It is a much rarer title in Paris.” 

“Yes… yes, I will jest and say that if you accept his offer, you will come to learn that much about Erik is unusual,” Nadir paused. Christine got the impression that he regretted his comment. She offered him a sincere look.

A hand went back to compulsively stroke the back of his neck. “Not that it should be uhh… an issue of any sort. You will, if you accept of course, find that Erik is… not like other men, in a… uhh… multitude of ways.” He stopped and sighed. “I apologize. I fear that I am as much deterring you from this offer… and making a fool of myself as I am being convincing.”

As perplexed as Christine was, she still gave him a small smile of encouragement, even if tempered with uncertainty. After all, this was Paris. She had come across her fair share of eccentrics, which varied in range from the harmless to the adverse. Yet, she was starting to trust this man, even in the short time she had conversed. If he insisted on his friend’s competence and integrity, she was willing to accept a bit of peculiarity.

“It is quite alright. I was actually thinking you were being quite persuasive,” she assured him.

Nadir gave a genuine smile. “Then I would truly encourage that you take this opportunity, Mademoiselle. Erik does not offer praise lightly, and for him to have seen something in you…” he trailed off, giving her a questioning look. 

Christine still had more questions than she thought this man would be willing to answer. She was stunned, a combination of apprehension and confusion. However, the shock was pacified by a certain curiosity and a modicum of excitement that she was not prepared to admit. For so long she had acquiesced to her small measure of success, letting her sorrow strip her of ambition. To think that she could eclipse the limits she had set upon herself…

“I accept!” She blurted before she realized she had said it. She covered her mouth in embarrassment over the uncharacteristic declaration. She quickly clarified, tripping slightly over her words, “I mean… I would be honored to take this opportunity if you would first clarify a few things for me? I would not have myself taken advantage of.”

Nadir looked amused, a small smile curving the edge of his lips. “But of course. Ask anything you may wish. I do believe we have a little while longer before I promised your return to your guardian and before those managers find the courage to omit us from their offices,” he finished with a small laugh. 

Christine smiled as she took the proffered papers that were still in his hands. She examined the compositions, fingers flitting over the curious texture. She looked up, all seriousness returning to her expression. “How do you know this man, this Erik?”

Nadir leaned back in his chair. “Erik is a friend with which I share an extensive history. I would elaborate, but it is a history which cannot and should not be given during such a limited time frame to do it justice, I’m afraid,” he confided softly.

“I see,” Christine replied. She was not so naive. She recognized when information was being withheld, although she couldn’t expect to learn everything during a short conversation. She was still curious, however. “Well, perhaps one day.” 

“Yes. One day. Is there anything else that you wanted to know?”

Christine did have one more important question, if she was sure to take this opportunity. “Just a few more questions, Monsieur,” she started. She was slightly embarrassed at the nature of her next enquiry. She did not want to insult the man before her. “I’m sure you understand that I am but a young woman with only an elderly guardian to protect her virtue? Where will these… lessons be taking place?”

Nadir nodded, not at all flustered, but seemingly rather prepared for the question. “Ah, yes. Be assured that your safety is of utmost priority. Neither Erik nor I would ever dream of sullying your reputation. I have spoken to the managers and they are willing to relinquish the use of a small practice room every evening after rehearsals, if that would be quite alright with you. You would of course be allowed a chaperone, if you so desire, although I sincerely doubt you would need one. Madame Giry, perhaps?”

“The ballet mistress?” She had spoken to the woman a few times, although her experience with the woman was limited, only receiving some points of advice as to the small dancing bits required of the chorus. Never had she been subject to the strict, harsh treatment legendary of the infamous ballerina. 

“The very same. She is an acquaintance of Erik’s and rather discreet. I am sure she would be willing to aid in your comfort — I shall speak with her. The room would be yours to use as soon as tomorrow, if you so desire.”

“Oh! Really? That soon?” Christine exclaimed. All of this was almost starting to move too quickly for her tastes. She had accepted, but was unprepared for the expedition that it was all taking place. Her head was spinning! However, she was starting to truly feel that she was ready for this opportunity. She could be bold, right? Tomorrow was a good a day to further her goals as any other. 

“Yes, my friend is simply eager, you see,” Nadir replied as he nodded. “He never has been good with patience — Perhaps you will learn that soon enough. He wishes to start as soon as possible, he told me.”

Christine was nearly daunted at what he implied, but with a newfound burgeoning confidence, refused it to allow to sway her decision. There was no other way to put it — she was excited — for the first time in a long time.

As she stood up suddenly, Nadir mimicked her movement. She swallowed hard, raising her chin up high, “Then I see no reason to keep him waiting, I suppose. Unless, of course, there is anything else that you believe I should know before I make such a commitment?” She raised her eyebrow. 

“No… nothing. I mean, it really should have no bearing on your decision… however.” Nadir hesitated, fighting some sort of internal trial. He sighed again, running a hand over his dark, finely trimmed beard. He mumbled something to himself before continuing. 

“Erik would not wish me to inform you of this, wanting you to make your own judgements of him firsthand — but I would feel truly remiss to be dishonest.”

With the tension in the olive-skinned man, his jade eyes focused on the floor rather than her own person, Christine worried that this opportunity was to prove anything but, that her hopes had been raised only then to be crushed. She said tentatively, perhaps trying to convince even herself, “Anything it is, as long as your friend is of decent character, if his genius is half as great as you profess it to be — I’m certain that it will surely compensate for…?”

Nadir followed her lead. “It should not be an issue, but for a lady, it could perhaps prove… What is the right term…? Intimidating, one might say. You see, Mademoiselle, that Erik is much unlike other men, as I’ve said before — I do not intend to be so vague, but it is a sensitive topic; he would not want me telling you.”

“Perhaps it should not be as sensitive as you think,” Christine replied. She was curious as to her new tutor, but cautious. What aspect of the man could be so disheartening as to sway her decision?

Nonetheless, she had the responsibility to look after her own wellbeing, and if Nadir thought the information pertinent, she had to believe him. “I have spent many years around artists and eccentrics. Whatever it is, it may not prove such a hindrance as you might suspect.”

“Your confidence is inspiring, but I do believe my hesitance is justified. Yet, it is not something that can be hidden and so I must be forthright. A preceding awareness of it shall not tempt your decision. I simply do not wish for you to be alarmed and if are to be tutored by Erik, you should be informed that he…”

“Yes?” Christine prompted.

“He wears a mask,” he finished swiftly, his annunciation muddled, yet Christine understood the words.

Christine was shocked, expecting anything else than the information that was just revealed to her. She was not one to judge another on outward appearance, but had worried that perhaps Nadir was going to reveal that Erik was some sort of convict. Or perhaps a womanizer. Luckily, her father had always taught her that looks always played second fiddle to the compassion and integrity in one’s heart. Still, never to be able to see someone’s true face was rather jarring.

“A mask?” Christine repeated. She had to make sure she heard correctly. 

“Yes. A mask. It covers his entire face. He is not any sort of loose criminal, believe me, hiding his face from the law. In fact, the authorities are quite aware of his existence and… peculiarities. He wears the mask for personal reasons. He was…” Nadir paused for a moment, pursing his lips, “He was injured some years ago, and he prefers to keep the damage hidden.” 

At this Nadir became quite solemn as he continued. “I know it is hard to trust someone who hides his face, but please take my word when I say you will have nothing to fear from him. However, you must never try to remove the mask… Please. It will do neither you nor him any good.” 

“Oh, I see,” Christine responded, steeling herself. “I would never surmise to judge a person by second-hand account, especially by something as trivial as appearance. I am certain that I will become use to it in time.” She moved towards the entry way, expecting Nadir to follow in order to escort her home, as he had promised. “If that is all, tell Erik that I eagerly await meeting with him tomorrow. Seven o’ clock, correct?” 

She turned to leave, but halted at the tone of Nadir’s hesitant voice.

“There is one more thing, Mademoiselle,” Nadir began as he remained standing where he was. He sighed once more. His hand again traced the outline of his beard, biding time in his obvious discomfort. 

“Yes? What is it, Monsieur? I believe that if I am willing to turn a blind eye to—“ Christine was cut off by a rather ungentlemanly snort. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Are you quite alright, Monsieur?” 

“Yes, quite alright. It’s just that you said…” he faltered. “No, never mind. It should not matter. It does not matter. You should only have his mask to worry about now… Not that you should worry about it. You would come to your own conclusions, naturally… eventually, I am sure. If you will excuse me, I shall call you a cab and will undoubtedly see you tomorrow.” He stood up straight, flustered as he was careful not to brush against Christine as he aimed towards the door.

“Monsieur!” Christine implored, reaching up to grab his shoulder. “Please.”

“Very well.” Nadir’s voice dropped, his tone lightened. “I… I’m sure you noticed the… unusual nature of his writing.”

At that, Christine reflected on the raised quality. She had thought it unusual, but suspected that is was perhaps a different brand or composition. She never claimed to be an authority on ink quality. “Yes, I did notice. I figured that it simply a different kind from my own.”

Nadir nodded, “Yes. Quite different. Erik, the chemist that he sometimes likes to profess that he is, singlehandedly created that ink to dry quickly and to leave that raised texture so he could later feel what he wrote. He uses another system for ease of reading, but needed a medium that could be understand by him and others alike. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Something tugged on a corner of Christine’s brain, perhaps providing the correct answer, but not wanting to presume. She shook her head slowly. 

“No.”

“It is quite a long story, and he has not always been so. Not many individuals are able to tell, especially if they do not spend much time with him. He hides it so well. Sometimes even I sometimes forget. ”

“Are you trying to say, Monsieur Nadir, suggesting that—?” She had unconsciously raised a hand to grace the skin about her temple.

“Yes, Mademoiselle.” Nadir nodded his head, his eyes closed. “Erik is blind.”


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

July 1868, Persia

_As the air settled and the din of Erik’s booming voice faded, the audience was struck silent. Nadir could see the dignified glint in Erik’s eyes, satisfied by the sway that he held over people that would otherwise detest him._

_The magician turned to retreat, his dark cloaks sweeping behind him._

_“Is that all?”_

_Erik stiffened at the lilting, feminine voice, his shoulders raised in a gesture of defense that Nadir was sure only he noticed. Erik did not turn around as he replied._

_“Are you dissatisfied, Madame?” He acknowledged over his shoulder, his voice betraying nothing, smooth and deep._

_The Khanum was perched in her chair beside the Shah, who remained silently intrigued. As he leaned back in his seat in interest, the Khanum leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowed as a predator on the slender back of her prey._

_"I once told you of the power you could have in Persia. Perhaps my expectations were too great. I was simply expecting more.”_

_Yes, the Khanum had spoken to Erik of power. He could be the most powerful person in Persia, more powerful than the Shah himself, if he so desired, a dangerous notion for both parties. Nadir looked to the Shah, trying to discern how the suggestions of the Queen mother affected the young King. The adolescent boy only appeared morbidly interested, rather than put off by the notion of any power that was not his._

_The room was silent. Glancing around, the Daroga saw the perturbed expressions of many of the members of court, eyes darting back and forth as the tension heightened._

_“Were you truly?” Erik replied coldly, his head inclined slightly towards the Khanum, although he still faced away, “Or do you simply delight in being irksome? I was under the impression that I was merely here to entertain, to mystify your guests?" He sighed, flicking his wrist condescendingly at the Khanum. Droning, ”I grow tired of these games.”_

_Nadir’s stomach dropped at the resentful tone in which Erik addressed the Khanum. Had the man gone mad? Many men had met the blade for much less than such a display of contempt._

_The Khanum, for only a quick moment, looked indignant at Erik’s response. Nadir almost missed the expression hid mostly behind her veil. However, she recovered quickly and threw back her head in a chilling laugh._

_“Yes, Erik,” she was one of the few people to dare address the magician by that name. “I do delight in these games of ours. But I was simply hoping for that imagination that we once spoke of. I was wondering, Erik. Would you like to show the crowd if it truly matches your face?”_

_Nadir felt the anger radiating off the man at the mention of his face, although visibly, Erik appeared as unflappable as ever. His eyes, however, burned, fire from within the deep, shadowed sockets. At this point, Nadir himself had not seen behind the mask. He had not witnessed the horror of which Erik often hinted._

_At Erik’s lack of an answer, Nadir watched as the Khanum gestured with her hand. The doors of the audience chamber opened, revealing two guards dragging another man, bound, a prisoner as given by his tattered garb._

_“We once spoke of what that very imagination could make you. I believe, Erik, that the moment has come to turn that prophecy into a promise,” the Khanum purred. She indicated the prisoner, “Kill him.”_

_Erik closed his eyes, shaking his head back and forth nearly imperceptibly. He opened them again, their golden hues alight with cold flames until he steeled his expression into indifference. He sighed as he finally turned back around to address the Khanum directly._

_“And what of his crimes?”_

_“They do not matter.” The Khunum replied lightly._

_Erik matched her tone, but his words spoken at a much slower pace. "They matter very much."_

_"They do not!"_

_“If I am to be his executioner, I will know his transgression.”_

_“It is not yours to judge,” The Khanum’s voice took on a strident tone, elevating in pitch and force._

_Erik remained calm. “It is only mine to judge.”_

_The Khanum stood up suddenly, pointing to the prisoner. “Kill him!” she demanded vehemently, almost shrill. “It is not your place to question! You shall not scorn me!” Her tone softened. “You will not mock me.”_

_As emphatic as the Khanum had become, Erik was equally composed, “Any scorn you may feel is yours and yours alone.You have made your request. I have made mine. The question is: who shall now yield?”_

_"You are mine. Mine to control, mine to command! You have no say in this court!"_

_“Do I not? I must admit that I was under a much different impression.”_

_“Do not overestimate your stature, magician,” she sneered. “You will know your place, you hideous beast!” she was almost screaming now. The audience of the hall was shocked, eyes wide, for their Khanum had always been a creature of composure. To see her so emphatic was disconcerting. Even the Shah’s eye had acquired an amused glint._

_There was a long pause._

_“And what place is it do you reference, Madame?” Erik’s sly tone rose only slightly, betraying his ire at the mention of his face. “Am I your Magician? Or am I your beast? Do you find me no better than the exotic creatures you cage for your pleasure? Believe me, Madame, when I tell you that you have not yet witnessed true monstrosity.”_

_Nadir could make out the change to delight in the Khanum’s eyes at the slight crack in Erik's facade. She continued with thinly veiled fervency, "If you have seen my vast collection, you will know how much I cherish dark, dangerous beasts. You will know that I sometimes like to test them, see how much taunting they will endure until they lash out. Pain… degradation… are wonderful motivators. When they finally respond, and they always do… that is when they are most duly rewarded."_

_"I know nothing of what you speak, Madame," Erik replied with an air of boredom, picking a touch of lint from his dark cloak. "Now, if you will excuse me, perhaps I may construct something else to sate such a wicked imagination." He again turned to leave, aimed towards the door opposite from where the prisoner was still bound by the two guards._

_He had just placed his gloved hand on the handle when the Khanum spoke again, her voice low. "If you won't consent to bringing death, perhaps you would be more willing to remove the mask and show them the face of death instead! Perhaps that alone would be enough to kill?"_

_Erik stiffened and released the handle. He was angry, beyond angry. Nadir and every other witness could see it clearly. If they were not covered by the gloves, Nadir imagined that Erik's knuckles would be white by the vice grip of his hands, clenched to prevent them from shaking._

_“I warn you now, Madame. Do not taunt what you cannot control.”_

_The Khanum delighted in Erik's reaction. She laughed._

_“Would it appease you if I told you that this man is a murderer, who brutalized and raped his victims over and again until they begged for their end? That he is nothing but a demon?” Her voice started to rise with her excitement. ”If I told you that he thrilled in their suffering and then again violated the still-warm bodies? If I told you that his preferred victims were the little boys that—“_

_She was cut off by an abrupt thud and strained gargling._

_The Khanum turned swiftly to the prisoner, who had fallen to his knees, cuffed hands grasping weakly at the small throwing knife embedded in his throat. Blood swelled around the blade until a glaze came over the man’s eyes and he fell to the floor, sputtering as blood quickly filled his throat, the marble staining with the spray of deep red. There was a collective gasp throughout the audience hall. Even the Shah himself looked nearly startled, struck from his carefully maintained air of boredom._

_Erik’s eyes were alight in rage as he addressed the Khanum directly, the cloth of his dark cloak settling after the sudden movement. Nadir himself could not have said when the blade escaped the skilled hands of its possessor to find its target on the opposite end of the chamber._

_The Khanum studied the masked man for several moments, matching the heat of his gaze without flinching, a gleam in her eyes. “And what if I told you that he was no more than a simple beggar picked from the streets, guilty of nothing more than his own empty pockets?” She drawled with cold content._

_Erik said nothing and directed his eyes towards the floor, fingers slowly drawn into tight fists. Silence permeated throughout the hall for a long moment. He stepped silently towards the dead man and bent down. One gloved hand reached out towards the man, but hesitated. His fingers were trembling. Any individual with a less keen eye than the Daroga likely missed it._

_Slowly, Erik excised the knife from the man’s neck, its edges dripping. He rose, eyes fixed on the tainted blade. He pulled out a small kerchief and wiped the steel as he shifted towards the Khanum. With the blade sufficiently clean, he let the soiled piece of linen fall to the ground. He finally raised his eyes to match her gaze with a weary but direct focus._

_He held the knife firmly in his hand and directed it at the Khanum. the hall nearly erupted in strangled movement, guards prepared to jump at the implied threat to the Khanum. However, Erik seemed to have no intention for the knife to meet a second victim._

_Erik set the knife gently in front of the still woman, it's sharp edge pointed towards her person._

_“Are you not entertained, Madame? Are you not satisfied?"_

_The Khanum did not reply, but reached behind her neck and released the clasp of her ornate ruby collar. She held it in her lightly in her grasp a moment, considering it._

_“How does it taste, Erik? The power?” She gently tossed the collar next to the discarded knife._

_The fixed jewelry creating a metallic clangor through the chamber as it rattled slightly on the hard marble. Erik stared at it a moment and then lifted his gaze to the Khanum, his head tilted slightly. He paused before turning slowly away, his steps noiseless. All was silent until he burst through the twin doors, swinging violently in his exit._

_As the doors finally settled, all eyes were fixed on the abandoned reward, untouched on the polished floor._

* * *

 

Nadir awoke suddenly, the clamor of the doors still ringing in his ears. He ran a hand over his face and through his beard. It needed a trim. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, groaning, he realized that dawn had long since come and past. The drafting and signing of various documents had kept him up far later than he preferred the night prior.

He thought back to his dream, more of a memory really, and of his masked friend. The next day, Erik had been apprehended by several guards, men the Daroga and brought before the Khanum. For the insult of his failure to comply to the Queen mother’s demands, he had been sentenced to two dozen lashes. His biting rejection of the Queen’s reward had increased the measure of discipline twofold.

In remembrance of the punishment, Nadir sighed. While he had not been been the flogger himself, he had been required to attend the flagellation, amongst a crowd of lesser royal officials. The Shah was absent, but his mother had stood in his place.

Erik had been brought in, although the guards escorting dared not to lay a hand to him. His hands had not even been bound, but Nadir caught the glare he gave the Khanum, who had only nodded in response. They had come to some terms of agreement, Nadir presumed. After all, the performance that Erik had given the day prior could have warranted execution rather than mere a mere whipping.

Later, Erik would reveal to the Daroga that he had been given the choice between the whip or simply the removal of his mask before the entire court. Or death. He chose the former.

Erik looked to the Daroga, but latter relieved that the masked man bore no blame in his eyes, only a sort of disgusted resignation, as if bored with the entire affair. He obediently fell to his knees, quickly removing his top before the guards could do so, until his pale back was revealed.

It was the first time that Nadir had seen Erik disrobed in such a manner. He was usually always immaculately dressed, leaving only the trace of skin at his neck. The Daroga had always known the young man to be particularly lean, but now he could clearly distinguish every protrusion of his ribs, every knob of his spine amongst the nearly inhuman pallor of his deathly skin. A delicate layer of muscle betrayed some of the unduly strength Nadir knew he possessed.

What had struck Nadir, before the first strike of the whip found its mark, were the old scars of similar past assaults, marring the surfaces of both his back and his chest. A muted, collective gasp of the audience reflected the Daroga’s own sentiments, only swallowing subtly at the sight before him. This would not be the magician’s first dalliance with the lash.

Four dozen lashes had left Erik’s back a sanguine mess. His chest, too, denoted evidence of the Khanum’s retribution, the whip leaving bright, seeping welts. Erik had not given so much as a gasp throughout the entire ordeal. His face covered by the mask, his eyes shadowed, Nadir could not detect even a wince to accompany every brutal whipping.

It was due to this lack of reaction that the Khanum had suggested an alternate target that left both sides of the man bloodied. The chest had been more sensitive. Nadir had seen him grimace then.

When the ordeal was over, Erik had stood up, replaced his top, waited impassively for the Khanum’s permission to exit, and left the audience chamber silently as the blood soaked through the silk. Nadir had excused himself then. The door to Erik’s apartment had been left ajar. As he entered cautiously, he had found Erik collapsed on the stone floor, his breathing ragged. Nadir had then carefully cleaned and wrapped the man’s torso and helped him to bed.

Nadir had expected the man to leave Persia forever after that day. But the masked magician had other plans, returning to court within a week’s time — no indication of the pain that Nadir knew undoubtedly still wracked him.

The dream, as Nadir remembered, had been the first time that Erik had killed for the Persian court. It had certainly not been the last. Now — The Khanum ordered; Erik obeyed.

For that day had marked the beginning of the resolute change in the masked man’s demeanor, a shift from nonchalant levity to utter cold detachment. The Shah quickly learned to take advantage of his impartiality, beseeching his advice at various council meetings. Soon, the masked magician became a pervasive entity within the royal courts. The commission for the royal palace had followed a time thereafter.

The Khanum had taken advantage in more distorted flavors as she coaxed Erik to do her malevolent bidding. She called on Erik again as executioner and later assassin. This time, he had complied without protest. Initially, he had left the Khanum disappointed. He did his part, but without the theatrics that the Khanum so desperately craved.

Then, the executions morphed into the grotesque. Erik started toying with the victims, releasing the brutality of his mind. Every dark recess of Erik’s mind was illuminated by each horrifying death that he conjured.

Nearly four years since that first fatal execution, Nadir anticipated Erik’s return to Ashraf that evening. The commission for the royal palace in Tehran was nearly finished and its completion would leave Erik open to return to his previous duties within the capital.

With the thought, Nadir groaned aloud. He feared the closing of the project. During its construction, Erik had been relieved of his duties in the Persian court. Nadir had been grateful for the reprieve in the employment of Erik’s much darker, sinister talents.

Nadir remembered how he questioned Erik on why he resigned himself to the woman’s bidding. Erik had replied solemnly: He had killed one guiltless man. What would be another thousand against his already condemned soul? What darker fate could he possibly face by the construction of a torture chamber or the snapping of necks by a thin coil of catgut?

It filled his days and it filled his pockets.

Only later did Nadir discover the drugs, another measure of the Khanum’s penchant for manipulation.

With the chemical persuasion, the Khanum opened the floodgates to Erik’s much darker nature, the part that considered itself removed from the spectrum of humanity, the part that hated what it had become only second to those who had spurred the hatred itself.

With his personal vendetta against the human race coupled with his need for self-preservation, Erik became both prisoner and guiltless executioner in those rosy hours, fated to turn against his own race for a tragedy he could not control; he who only knew cruelty and then gave it back to the world in retribution for his pain.

Nadir saw the truth, though. The promises of power that Erik clung to as a raft, Nadir saw as nothing more than a farce. In his position in court, Erik was nothing more than a servant to the wills of the Shah and the perverse sentiments of the Khanum, who would be as willing to crush him under heavy stones as they were to reward him with those that were precious.

The design and construction of the palace had freed him from the debilitating habit that the Khanum had pressed against him. The last time the Daroga had met with Erik, his eyes had been clear — although his tongue was more biting than ever. It was why he now feared the commencement of the commission. He could not guess the Shah’s current motives and he could not trust Erik’s resistance against those vile substances.

He had heard rumors, yes, for both the members of court as well as the general public were quick to condemn — but one can never discern the truth from such unreliable sources, especially rumors concerning the pervasive Angel of Death…

The Daroga was startled out of his reverie from a barrage of firm knocks upon the apartment door. He darted out of bed, pulling on his cap and robe in an attempt to appear semi-decent for whoever required his presence. He suspected it was simply the courier beseeching the documents that Nadir had procured the night before.

He opened the curtains covering one of his windows to let some light into the sitting area and winced at the current state of his abode. He had sent Darius away early the evening prior, hoping that solitude would bolster his productivity. He had certainly gotten his work done, but his apartment had certainly suffered with the combination of Nadir’s adamance and the bout of his manservant’s absence.

Opening the door, he was surprised by the presence of the Khanum herself standing before him, flanked by a couple guards. Nadir’s eyebrows furrowed in sudden confusion. He had never heard of the woman making personal visits, and certainly never to him. What was one to do in such a situation, outside of court? He did the only thing he was sure of: show deference.

Being of reasonably elevated status in the court, he would not submit so much as to fall to his knees and prostrate himself at her feet, but bowed deeply, head lowered.

“Your majesty,” he conceded.

“Late night, Daroga?” he heard the silky voice say with an amused tone, “Rise. I only wish to speak to you of our mutual acquaintance.”

Nadir rose slowly, lifting his head. He had never particularly enjoyed the presence of the Khanum in court or otherwise. Her presence in the sanctity of his own home was equally bothersome, especially so close. He respected, he appeased, but the Khanum’s perverse nature had always left him suspicious — caution, his ally.

Yet, to display such animosity would yield uncomfortable consequences. Luckily, his impregnable facade was rather convincing.

The Khanum had cast an interested eye over Nadir’s lack of reaction. He could have sworn that he saw the corner of her mouth rise beneath the veil of the hijab. Odd.

His sense of propriety immediately kicked in. “May I interest you in a cup of Chai as we discuss such matters? I must apologize for the state of my abode. It is times like this that I would savor a taste of monotony once again.” He looked to the woman. She seems so much smaller outside of court.

She replaced the small smile with a nearly convincing air of levity. “No need, Daroga. I will not keep you very long. I have simply come here to relay a message and gift upon our masked friend, upon the completion of the palace. ”

Nadir dipped his head in agreement. “It is wondrous palace. Its design and beauty a perfect reflection of those who shall inhabit it. Whatever reward you wish to bestow will certainly be duly honored.”

“Brimming with compliments I see, Daroga. However, even you must see the danger in the ingenuity that my architect possesses.”

“I must confess and say that the ingenuity needed to exceed the tact of using the weight of an elephant’s foot to crush the head of your enemy cannot amount to much.” The Khanum raised her eyebrows at the Daroga’s remark, tilting her ahead in warning. Nadir swallowed hard.

“However, the day that Erik’s genius is exhausted is the day the Earth ceases to spin, your majesty. I am convinced that you will find continued use for his talents.” He could only hope for the less destructive of those talents.

“Yes, yes — Or else someone else just might,” the Khanum response. “Our methods had become rather outdated, had they not? The Shah does admit the magician’s talents may yet serve as an advantage — if only for the immediate future.”

Nadir couldn’t help the suspicion that threatened to creep into his countenance. He remained silent.

“Well, I had not planned for this to be social visit, Daroga. I have many matters to deal with at court.” The Khanum beckoned forward with a hand and another guard stepped forward, bearing a bottle in his hands. “Being as we are, we are a generous people.” She indicated for Nadir to take the bottle. “While we both forgo the temptation of the bottle, I believe our architect maintains a looser set of morals." With a lazy gesture of the hand, "For the completion of the project, a gift from my son.”

Nadir reached out and gently took the bottles of cloudy liquid—Arak. “He will be most gracious, revered mother,” he uttered.

“Daroga, we can both be assured in knowing that gratitude is not one of our friend’s endearing traits,” she replied. Nadir could hear the smile on her lips even when he could not see it. Raising his eyes, he met hers for only a moment.

He saw triumph.

“One final thing. About that message I wished to relay, Daroga. Our afflicted friend bears a diamond ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. I believe, that with the new tasks that he will be undergoing by the Shah’s orders, he will shortly have very little use for its craftsmanship and would wish its return… for safekeeping.”

After a pause, she narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. With a turn, her gait smooth as she exited through the entrance way, she was gone, her guards flanking.

Nadir couldn’t help the sinking feeling of his stomach. Bottle still in hand, he set it gently on a small side table.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

July 1868, Persia

In his vanity, the palace was a masterpiece — his masterpiece. Stone from the finest quarries lined the floors and walls, encrusted with priceless gems from obscure mines. Several of those gems currently resided in the comfort of his robes, plucked from their inlay, now replaced with very convincing fakes, They rattled as he perused each finished corner. The design of his palace was unlike any other — high arches and vaulted ceilings contrasted with darkened corners and hidden alcoves.

His gloved fingers graced the surface of one particular stone, its appearance like any other. It would glimmer in the sunlight when not relegated to its current darkness, just as all the stones cut from its quarry would.

Sunroofs dotted the ceiling's surface, veiled by finely crafted tapestries. When removed, sunlight would bathe each and every surface, illuminating even the darkest of recesses.

Erik pushed slightly harder on a particular stone. With a solid thud, the wall opened, revealing a small passageway into the hidden maze of hallways that pervaded the palace. He was the sole possessor to the knowledge of this entrance.

No distinctive marking indicated the importance of that particular slab. One must simply know - just as he knew.

He could move as a ghost behind walls, unknown to even the Shah himself, if he so desired.

He reveled in the knowledge that even centuries later, no one but him would have known the complete truth of his enigmatic designs.

The absence of light of no consequence, he walked blindly through complete darkness. To his left was nothing but a solid wall. To his right, however, he could hear the voices of his workers, their voices amplified by his clever designs. This was how the Shah demanded the palace be constructed. One could listen to rumors at ease, eavesdrop on the sensitive conversations that would never grace the ears of court. He wanted to startle both adversary and ally alike— privy to secrets that he could not know.

To be a shadow of God was no longer enough.

Erik smirked. Not all secrets would be his. Just as only the painter knows what hidden lies hidden beneath the finished masterpiece, Erik alone possessed the knowledge to every nuance of his art.

Beyond the wall, in what he knew was one of numerous throne rooms, Erik was not surprised at the current topic of conversation. He heard every word clearly. Besides, what could be more interesting than an abomination such as he turned architect? He detested it — their words were so blatantly false. He clenched his jaw, suppressing the prickling threat of anger.

He did have the right to be angry, even without knowing the subject their insolent gossip:

They were supposed to be working.

"I say there is nothing wrong with his face at all — just another skinny, pig-nosed European, if you ask me. Desperate for attention! Ugly, to be sure — But normal enough! Probably on the run, the way he covers that shriveling mug of his."

"No! He is risen from the dead, I tell you. Only the spawn of the devil himself could have eyes like that."

"Only the spawn of the devil would demand these hours! In this heat, too! I don't think I could have stood another day with that monster over my shoulder! And on my ass!

"Whatever he is, he's undoubtedly hiding his face in shame — bedding the Shah's mother as he is. Hah! I bet you would prefer her on your ass instead! The wretch! The woman likes corpses, apparently!"

"Or mine on hers! I mean, I could be all dark and mysterious if I wanted to — cheap trick that it is. If a mask is all it takes to bed the Khanum…"

"Ha! No… you are much too fat."

They laughed.

Erik growled, his hand itching towards the coil of catgut on his hip. He refrained, but recognized each voice: Ahmad, the eldest, had a beautiful wife and young son awaiting him at home. Youssef, the crudest of the bunch, was a bachelor and a lazy mason with a poor sense of hygiene. Javad was the youngest of the three, but displayed the most skill in his trade — truly a pity it would have to go to waste.

However, their retribution must wait. Erik had, after all, tolerated their slander for years.

He could be patient.

Well, patient enough... He did so deserve just a small measure of justice.

Erik traversed the passageways until finding the expected exit. If they thought him a demon, he would certainly strive to exceed such expectations.

Abandoning his hiding spot, he stalked forward until he found himself positioned behind the boorish collection of swine. His footsteps were delicate, muffling his approach. He leaned forward to whisper directly into one of the offender's ears, loud enough for all three to hear, his tone icy.

"I could not help but overhear your… vulgarity. If you believe that the Khanum so craves dead men, I would be willing to aid you in your endeavor."

They froze by the sound of his voice. His voice fell to a hiss, "You see, I am a very generous man and would be delighted to arrange the matter. How would you prefer it go? Shall I wait until asphyxiation sets in or simply snap the neck to get it over with? Or would you rather the dagger?"

Erik could see them trembling, unwilling or unable to turn around and confront him. Their predictability - their fear - was utterly delectable.

However, he did not wish to remain until they came back to their senses — he would only catch the acrid stench permeating from their undoubtedly soiled undergarments. Satisfied, he retreated swiftly to the shadows of the hidden passageway, closing the entry behind him to once again disguise the manner of his deceit.

He so much delighted in their torment, no matter how small. He could still hear their labored breathing, saturated with fear.

For added measure, after being safely concealed, he let loose a terrible, bellowing laugh, equal parts beautiful and terrifying. The revelry resonated throughout the halls, coming all at once from everywhere and nowhere. To the far reaches of the palaces, its eerie mirth echoed. Listening to the shrieks and rapid footsteps of several grown men scrambling away in a panic, Erik ceased his laughter, a smirk remaining at the corner of his lips.

He lingered only until the harmony of his handcrafted terror faded away, leaving him in blissful silence.

Erik turned away and swept through the corridors, down spiraling staircases, lower and lower to the deepest levels of the palace. He pushed slightly against a door. Unlike many of the secret entrances and exits, this entry had a handle for opening.

These had been his temporary quarters, a room none of the workers dared to enter, according him his personal little corner of hell in the nethermost depth of his design.

For that is what he had constructed: hell. It was a hall of mirrors, six sided, with dual furnaces concealed by grated openings in the floor and ceiling. A towering iron tree consummated the design, the ornate, twisted branches hauntingly beautiful and grotesque, serving a purpose unknown to any man other than Erik and the Shah himself.

In his time in Persia, Erik had come to believe the Khanum to be the most perverse of individuals, with no limit as to the depth of her depravity. In that time, he had resigned himself to sating the most unquenchable of thirsts. Because of it, the weight of death now hung on his shoulders.

He had constructed a vaguely similar design once before, for the Khanum, albeit on a much simpler scale. That had been years ago, but it had been the first display of Erik's genius in design. The Khanum had relished in its unmatched brutality, in the anguished screams and pleas it wrenched from its victims.

However, his audience had never been that of one alone.

He had had no time to cater to the sole appetite of the King himself, and had paid it no heed. As Erik later discovered, that hunger had too been growling: louder, more vile — and even more insatiable. And it had felt neglected.

By its command, Erik designed and constructed a larger, more elaborate, more heinous torture chamber. In the very heart of the palace's depths prevailed a testament to human cruelty — The cruelty of a boy who thought himself a man... And a reflection of a man who thought himself a monster.

Glancing around the chamber, Erik grimaced. He shook his head as he grabbed hold of the satchel that rested on the small metal cot situated beneath the iron tree. No noose yet hung from the branches, another aspect of its insidious design. After slinging the satchel roughly to his back, Erik removed his lasso from his sleeve, grasping it tightly in his hands.

At first glance, the design may have appeared similar, but catgut was a terrible medium for a hangman's noose. The fall from the branch would sever the victim's trachea before asphyxiation ever set in, if the damned bastard was unlucky enough to avoid breaking his neck on the initial descent. No, his prided weapon was not a noose; the kill it provided was much cleaner, and much more personal.

He replaced the lasso to his sleeve. He would find a suitable noose back in Tehran to outfit this chamber. He was to ride out this evening, preferably before the setting of the sun.

Exiting through the same passageways from which he entered, Erik found himself outside the boundaries of the palace's ornate facade. He strode to the recently finished stables, cleverly located within one of the exterior walls — easily accessible, but tastefully sequestered.

The Shah had requested a new shipment of foreign bred Arabians to outfit each stall. Erik had advised in the purchase of several older, more experienced specimens. However, his advice had gone unheeded, and despite his protests, the Shah was obstinate in his prideful demands for an unsullied crop. Erik had simply rolled his eyes and moved on. They would be beautiful creatures, but unbroken and nearly as stubborn as their newfound master.

By the smell of it, they had not yet arrived.

Erik stepped gracefully over a pile of swept hay and dirt. Winds in Persia could be trying in a stable full of notoriously untidy animals and their feed, and fine layers of dust would quickly blanket every surface if left untouched. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a young lad with a broom, having abandoned his task at the sight of Erik. The boy ducked away quickly, realizing he'd been spotted. Erik sighed.

A loud whinny caught his attention. One horse did currently inhabit the stables, his thick muscles and broad joints a stark contrast to the lithe breeds preferred in Persia. That whinny was unique to the tall, Russian bred gelding.

Erik knew the animal recognized the sound of his own distinctive footsteps, softer than the typical stable boy's and quicker than the typical horseman's. With the excited stomping of hoofs on wood shavings, the horse was presumably happy to see him. Erik almost smiled at the thought, and felt a small portion of the tension that wracked his weary body released. At least someone desired his presence.

After removing his gloves, Erik reached into his pocket and found the small cube that he had poached earlier that morning from a worker's stores. Approaching the animal's small quarters, he watched as a straight, reddish nose emerged through the small opening in the bars, nostrils flaring. His lips moved up and down in the anticipation of a treat.

"Good evening, Ryzhik." The beast snorted in response to his name, a delightful little trick Erik had taught him during the languid nights of his travels through Russia. The trick had once been quite pleasing to a paying crowd and handsomely benefitted his tips.

From his acquisition near the Don River in western Russia, the horse had been a willing companion as Erik had traveled east. The animal had been named for his distinctive, red chestnut coloring, reminiscent of a fungus popular in the northwestern regions of his home country.

Erik kept the small bit of sugar hidden in his pocket, but reached out to stroke the animal's muscular neck. The horse flicked his ears in frustration and reached downward and nipped at Erik's dark robes.

"Patience is a virtue, my friend," Erik mock-scolded as he pulled his hand from his pocket and flattened his hand, making sure his fingers would bear no casualties as the horse took the small piece of sugar gently from his palm and munched contentedly. When he was finished, he leaned down again, beseeching another.

"I think that is quite enough for now, You have obviously been spoiled thoroughly in my absence. You have gotten much too fat already." Erik gave the horse's neck another firm pat before retreating a few steps. When he was far enough away as to not startle his horse, he raised his voice.

"Boy!" he called harshly. He waited several moments, yet no one appeared. He was about to call out again, with a much greater tone of annoyance, when the boy from earlier stepped forward hesitantly, still carrying the broom. His eyes were lowered to the ground, avoiding gazing at Erik's masked faced. Erik suspected it was more out of fear than of respect.

"Y... Yes? How... How may I serve you?" The boy recited absently, his voice barely audible. Erik grimaced. His infamous reputation had filtered from the high ranks of court all the way down to the lowly stable rats, inspiring fear in all.

He could not decide if it was a battle won or lost...

"Have my horse tacked within the half hour." The boy nodded sharply and turned to escape. However, before he could hasten away, Erik grabbed his left shoulder. The boy jumped and turned back to look at Erik with eyes wide and hands shaking, seemingly too afraid to try to escape.

The boy was skinny… too skinny, his shoulder nearly as sharp and bony as Erik's own. It was a wonder the lad had the strength to lift a saddle onto a horse's back or manage a bit into an unwilling mouth. Erik tilted his head slightly to the side and down meet the boy's startled gaze. "What is your name, boy?"

The boy trembled. "K… Kaysar."

Erik reached up slowly to the boy's left ear. Even as Kaysar flinched away from his hand, Erik persisted. With a small flick of wrist and finger, he procured a small coin, clutched between two fingers. It would appear to come straight out if thin air. To Erik, the small bit was nothing more than a trifle, but it was probably worth more than the boy earned in a fortnight.

Erik felt he saw a smile nearly grace the boy's lips, stifled as he must of thought he was being tricked.

Erik held it out in front of his eyes for a moment, examining its etched face. He let his voice be gentle, soothing, "Well… Kaysar. I will also have my horse - Ryzhik is his name - brushed very thoroughly. Be careful of the left flank. He is sensitive and apt to kick." He lowered the coin to the boy. "This here is just bit of incentive. Take it."

The boy reached out tentatively to take the coin, his hand wavering. However, just as his small fingers were about to grasp it, Erik curled his hand, the coin disappearing once again. The boy gasped and stepped back a foot and then let out a single giggle. Erik had to repress a smile at the slight crinkling of the boy's nose. Then, with a small flourish of his opposite hand, the coin reappeared. He held it out once more.

Making a show of it, Erik rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. "Well, boy, do you want it or not?"

Kaysar stepped forward, a dubious expression across his face and took the coin quickly in both hands, not wanting to be fooled again. Erik let him take it this time. The boy, as if realizing what he held in his hands, stared at it as his mouth dropped open in shock. His eyes, however, no longer held the fear that Erik found he relished in grown adults, but despised in children. Now, those same eyes were filled with wonder and excitement.

Erik couldn't let the boy stand there forever and stood up straight, drawing himself to his full height, as to make himself appear even more intimidating than he inherently already was. He made his voice gruff, "My horse?"

The boy stashed the coin in a slightly torn pocket. Looking back up to Erik, he nodded fervently.

"Right away!"

The boy darted away, nearly running until he remembered the lessons that had obviously been ingrained in him since he was a small boy—never run in a stable—and slowed his pace to a swift walk. He turned away towards the tack storage area. Watching him, Erik felt a small, genuine smile tug at the corner of his lips.

Ryzhik snorted again and then banged twice with his hoof against the wooden door. Erik rolled his eyes as he once more dug into his own pocket. He held out the small treat. "Just the one more, you ungrateful creature." He swore, if a horse could look smug…

By the sound of the boy's returning footsteps, Erik took his leave, leaving the boy to complete his work in peace. In the time being, Erik roamed the empty corridors of the palace, examining the masonry he had so painstakingly scrutinized time and time again. Finally, he had come to trust, begrudgingly, the craftsmanship of his crew. Yet, he could not relieve himself of the duty of one final inspection.

The work was not overall disappointing. Stone faces were cut smoothly, arches soared and facades shone in the reflected sun. Erik was proud of this work, the real-life manifestation of the beauty that pervaded his mind.

Yet, thinking of it, Erik groaned audibly. He had created an eighth wonder of the modern world for a Shah who would inevitably disgrace the genius of his art. He forced himself to be unattached.

This palace was no longer his. He must turn it over to tainted hands.

By the time Erik returned to the stables, a good half-hour later, his horse was fully tacked and groomed, not a speck of dirt on his coat. The boy, however, was nowhere in sight. However, Erik could hear the subtle scraping of a broom echoing through the aisles.

Erik removed his satchel from his back and tied it with a tight knot to the rear of the saddle before reaching for the leather of the reins. By chewing impatiently on the bit, Ryzhik had formed a light froth at the edges of his mouth, making him more responsive to riding cues. As Erik walked forward, the horse followed without need for guidance, following his master. Erik passed the boy in his exit. The boy simply smiled and continued on his task.

Erik tilted his head, "Thank you, Kaysar."

Once outside, Erik squinted his eyes at the sun as he replaced his gloves. A slight sweat had formed at the ridge of his mask, only a small discomfort, but annoying nonetheless. The wind had picked up, the stirred areas of dust stinging his eyes.

Pointing his horse to his desired destination, Erik swiftly mounted, gracefully settling himself into the seat of the saddle. His fingers curled slightly around the reins as he gave Ryzhik a small nudge with his right heel.

The horse swiveled on its hindquarters, directed once more at the palace. Erik swept his eyes over the immense monument one final time. Such a grand pity... Perhaps one day he would design for one deserving of his genius.

With another nudge, the horse turned about once more and broke into a brisk trot, his shod hooves sounding on the stone-paved ground. Erik relaxed into a steady rhythm, giving slight cues with the reins to direct his horse to the desired path. Several travelers dotted the trail, looking away at the sight of the dark rider approaching, arms often locked protectively around either goods or loved ones.

Erik would roll his eyes and continue on without comment.

Soon, the paved surface gave way to compact dirt. With the more forgiving footing, Erik urged the chestnut into a quicker gait and settled into the smooth rocking of his canter.

And so he traveled; the incredible endurance of his steed never faltered. He stopped at every small stream he encountered, resting for a moment until again he made his way. He desired to be across the mountains and return to Tehran as soon as possible, yet would never sacrifice the health of his companion in his haste, and kept a steady pace.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik arrived in Tehran several days later during the mid-afternoon, in a state he often did not find himself in. He was dirty and tired, having spared only a few hours each night to accord some rest to both him and his horse. He had not slept those nights. Sleep eluded him even in the most secure of environments. To make himself vulnerable in the open air of night was unfathomable.

The road had taken its toll. Lips were chapped and tongue dry. His robes had accumulated its fair share of Persian dust and was ragged at the edges. The leather of his mask was coated with a film of grime — Erik was disgusted at the build up of sweat and dirt beneath it and the dried, crusted edges by his eyes. He refused to think of what he must smell like.

In the congested streets, amongst wary strangers, he walked freely as the crowd parted at the sight of him. At their conspicuous stares, he pulled at the hood of his cloak, veiling his countenance, masked as it was.

He could not smell worse than these rats.

Erik led Ryzhik by foot, giving the horse a long deserved break, having traveled so far. The horse followed loyally several paces behind without a need for guidance. Reins resting gently over his neck, his head was low, tail swishing lazily at the few flies that buzzed around him.

"Only a bit farther, my friend," Erik assured.

Luckily, the palace in Tehran was indeed only a short while away; its royal stables would provide adequate lodging, safe from thieves and shielded from the elements. Then, Erik could finally retire to his personal quarters — reunited with his perfect, quiet solitude, that could only be broken by the wondrous tone of his violin. How he relished the thought.

He was suddenly torn from his rumination.

Through the commotion of eager vendors and desolate begging of the starved, it was the odd shape and the shining reflection of something metal that caught Erik's eye and immediate attention. The desire to retire to his apartments without delay escaped him entirely. He could not know what it was about it that drew his attention — a silent calling.

Drawing closer, Erik saw that it was a figure of what he assumed must have resembled a monkey at some point in its sore existence, situated atop a small box. A worn crank was poised ready at its side.

A music box.

Worn and debilitated, yes, but a music box nonetheless.

Curious, Erik called Ryzhik forward to the small stand, placing the animal behind him strategically. The horse concealed the better part of Erik's dark shadow from the street's view, allowing Erik a modicum of privacy. He pulled another sugar cube from his pocket — It would keep his companion occupied, if only for a short moment, and lend patience to the beast. The horse lowered his head, chewing slowly, heavy lidded eyes betraying a fatigue that mirrored Erik's own.

Satisfied with the small barrier that stood between him and the public, Erik surveyed his surroundings. Persian rugs hung from strung rope, shadowing the small store front from a blazing sun. The pungent smell of musty spices and warm, rotting fruit, accompanied by a thick layer of smoke, permeated the air — a typical Persian market. The vendor had, at some point, abandoned his post, leaving Erik to peruse as he pleased without the wary eye of condemnation. He picked the figure up gently by the frame and examined it with a scrutinizing eye.

The eyes on the monkey had been torn out long ago; an ear was mangled beyond recognition. The small robe it wore was ragged and threadbare and only one hand held what looked to be a miniature version of a cymbal — the animal was devoid of the matching arm entirely. The wooden chassis it sat upon was tinged with a distasteful off-green hue for which paint could not be blamed, as several areas were soft with rot.

At least the fur of its coat appeared somewhat intact, though it bore the accosting stench of mildew.

"You're a sad little thing, aren't you?" Erik muttered.

But this was an instrument and while it was the decoration that had initially drawn Erik's attention, it was the music that would ultimately keep it.

Carefully, Erik grasped the small knob of the crank; it felt tight in his hand. With a gentility of movement, he attempted to turn it, though it refused to budge. Fingers tightened more firmly on the small crank and Erik jostled the handle several times. Finally, it gave way. As it turned, he grimaced at the predictable grinding with every rotation of the components within, but would not be deterred. His curiosity for his little discovery overrode the notion of consequence.

After several turns, he let go.

For several moments Erik waited, yet was left with only the sounds of the street to sate his hungry ears. A crushing wave of disappointment washed over him, followed by smaller ripples of frustration and anger. Perhaps something was jammed. He shook the box harshly several times and was met only with a slight rattle and no music. He tried his hand on the crank once more. The knob broke off in his fingers.

Disheartened, he slammed the musical box back to its shelf with a scoff and roll of his eyes. This piece of junk was not worth the effort. He should not have bothered, should have been deterred by the exterior. It was as most things were — as ugly within as it was without. The interior was undoubtedly gutted — parts would be missing, rusted, misplaced... worthless. He had wasted his time expecting anything else.

With a disappointed shake of his head, Erik turned away sharply from the stand, with a single pull on the reins to urge Ryzhik to follow. The horse did sluggishly, waking up as he did from a small nap.

Erik pushed every thought of the box from his mind as the two trudged through streets.

Suddenly, Erik stopped. He wavered on his feet for several moments, shutting his eyes in focus. People scurried around his stalled form as Erik contemplated the odd sensation he felt... the odd sound he knew he heard, but also knew that could not have. He could almost physically feel his ears twitch, drawn to the sound.

To no one else would those few, staggered, broken notes, inaudible to all but him, be described as music, but to him...

The faintest hint of a melody sung in his ear, slow, struggling, one off-key tone at a time.

Twisting around, Erik hurriedly dodged startled locals as he worked upstream, against the flow of traffic. Several swore as they jumped back from swift shadow. Erik heard an anguished prayer from a woman with whom he had brushed shoulders in his haste. Ryzhik trotted loyally behind him, matching his pace, further disrupting the crowd.

They stopped in front of the stand. The vendor had fortunately not yet returned. Hands reached forward to once again hold the music box. He held it up to his ear. A tinny melody emanated from the box, so soft that only by the acuity of his ear could he have heard it. It made him question how even he could have caught it from the streets.

No more than a few seconds later, however, the tune faltered, straining towards its dissonant demise.

Erik furrowed his brow, not for the ugly cacophony of notes, but for the tune that he felt he must recognize, but could not quite place. It was a rather odd sensation for him; his mind held scores upon scores of music, each one easily plucked for use at any given moment. A song once heard was never forgotten — even the smallest fragment spurred in his eager ears an entire silent symphony. Still, this melody struck a cord within him as he struggled to place its origin.

Perhaps the disrepair of what was obviously once a high quality music box had distorted the melody, tainted it beyond recognition. The sudden need to restore it overwhelmed him, if only to hear the composition in full, as it was meant to be.

Looking about, the shop vendor had not yet returned. He could leave now, free of charge, the box in plain sight, stored in his hands. Not a soul would be any wiser to the deceit. Erik doubted the vendor would even miss the sad figure. Who, besides him, would ever realize its hidden value? Still, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small portion of his sizable reserves.

It would be more than enough for the vendor to turn a reasonable profit — more than the vendor would have procured otherwise. Erik rolled the coin several times between the knuckles of his fingers before reaching down to leave it on the stand, in the exact same spot where the monkey once sat.

It was in that moment, however, that the vendor had the gall to return to his post.

Erik caught the scent of fresh smoke and heard the rustling of the rugs, before he ever set his eyes upon the vendor. Coin still in hand, he drew it back. Just as Erik was to turn around to explain his intent and pacify the man, he felt a rough hand on his upper arm as a barrage of curses assaulted his ears.

At the touch, Erik whipped around with narrowed eyes. The hand withdrew at the sudden movement, as if it had been burned. At the view of the dark mask beneath the hood, recognition swept over the face of the portly Persian. Erik could almost hear the thoughts running though the man's head — this was the Angel of Death!

Ha! If only the poor soul knew.

The string of insults ceased from his lips. The man threw a hand over his errant mouth as he stumbled backwards, knocking over the various trinkets and figurines that littered his stands. His face was ashen and he babbled in stammered fragments as he struggled to escape through a slit between rugs. Finally succeeding, Erik heard several shouts from without.

He curled his lips in distaste as contorted his face beneath the mask into a mocking impersonation of the pig-faced fear. With a sigh, he relaxed his features.

He hated this… the reputation he had earned… and his patience was wearing thin. Soon, he might just give them a worthy cause for their fright.

Erik abandoned the small stand, glaring back at anyone who dared stare. The box secured in the crook of his elbow, the walk from the outskirt markets to the stables, just outside the palace, was not far.

Arriving, he handed his horse to one of the more reliable stable hands as he approached. It was one he recognized.

"I expect him to be bathed and fed — more grass, little grain — and he should be given enough water to flood a small house. I will be back this evening to make sure he is sound," Erik ordered roughly. The older boy nodded respectfully and took the reins. Erik took a moment to retrieve his satchel and threw it over his shoulder. He gave Ryzhik a brief, parting pat on the neck before returning to the familiar path to his abode.

Recognized by the guards at the entrance of the palace, Erik was permitted without question. No one dared cross him as he walked. He received a fair share of short, fearful glares or averted glances, especially from those used to his presence within these walls, but never was he ignored. He would have taken the back roads, used the secret passageways he knew so well, but the Shah expected news of his returned presence. For that reason only, Erik endeavored to make himself seen, no matter how he despised it.

Finally diverting to the private approach to his quarters, he recognized the familiar door and pulled the key from his pocket. It was a much simpler lock than he would have otherwise installed, but for some reason, he preferred it this way. Who would dare cross into a demon's domain?

Unlocking the door and pushing it open, it was apparent that the apartment had been unoccupied for months... And that no one had taken to invading the space in his absence. He immediately walked over to his workman's desk and set aside the satchel and small figure before sauntering over to retrieve a glass and the special bottle from his stores. Erik licked his lips in anticipation; he had been unable to partake in this particular vice in the long while it took to complete his commission.

Not that he currently had any others to indulge... No, that aspect of his life was over. He had had his part of it — and it had had its part of him.

No more.

Besides, if it did not end up killing him, the Daroga would instead, if Erik let himself succumb once more. He would not — he loathed the loss of control. He hated what he had become underneath its influence. He would not return to that abyss, no matter the demands of the Shah and his abhorrent mother.

That did not mean that he did not sometimes feel that unmistakable urge, that craving. It was still there, always there… always gnawing.

He pushed all thought of it from his mind.

Tonight, as the sun began its long descent towards the horizon, he would relax with only the drink for company. He would work on the music box or play the violin, for it called to him from the corner of the room.

Tomorrow, with a new sun, he would confront the Shah and his intolerable mother.

Sitting down, Erik stripped the gloves from his fingers and removed the mask, tossing it to a nearby cushion. He ran a hand over his face, carefully rubbing away the grime that built up around the edges. He breathed deeply at the sensation of the air, even if slightly stale, against his sore face. The mask had shielded his face much longer than he usually preferred, to the point where it had become suffocating.

To commemorate the moment, he poured a glass and took a small sip of the wine.

The vintage had been procured in the black markets from an underhand dealer… and the taste reflected its origins. Erik forced himself to swallow the rancid concoction — he would not be so undignified as to spit it out. Once it was down his throat, however, he grimaced at the aftertaste of vinegar. He set the glass back on the desk.

He wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, indifferent as he dirtied the already filthy garment.

Yet, his attention was not focused on the state of his clothing or the quality of his spirits; rather, it was focused on opening and inspecting the newly acquired charge that rested on his desk. The exterior work would be an easy fix: he would replace the robes and eyes, perhaps leave the ear torn — Erik liked the character it lent. Another cymbal could be fashioned from a spare piece of scrap metal and spare beads could stand in for eyes.

He thought of adding further mechanics to the monkey itself, the figure animated as it played. The stuffing would have to be removed, replaced with a wire frame. It would not be a complicated renovation. At least not for him.

Such changes would be futile, however, if the interior proved irreparable.

From a drawer, he procured several tools, hoping one would be able to pry the box open at its hinges. He prayed to an unseen god that he was not broaching Pandora's musical box to find a mess of an instrument beyond the worth of repair, despite the melody it had managed to play. Erik took the claw of his hammer and easily plucked rusted nails from the rotten wood at the top of the music box, where the monkey sat.

Even with the nails removed, however, the top refused the budge without force, ancient resin cementing the wood together. Changing strategies, Erik chipped away at the edges with a pick. Several fragments of soft decay fell away in his hands.

He forced several more pieces away; there was no need to delicate. He bored through the entire circumference, allowing him to remove the lid and assess the damage. He wedged his fingers beneath the edge. He shut his eyes in anticipation and, finally, lifted the top away.

Hesitantly, he peeked a single eye open.

Examining it from the top, he saw that several crucial parts were missing, and those remaining were indeed heavily rusted. What must have once been the spring coil was a mess, twisted beyond recognition. The metal drum that held the actual notes was rusted and worn down, leaving the tune unplayable in places. Overall, the piece seemed salvageable, but begged intensive care, with parts that he did not currently possess.

It would require another trip to the common parts of the city. He was acquainted with a trustworthy, retired engineer who likely had the pieces in his workshop. However, there was one aspect of repair he could not delay.

He took a small, handheld clamp from another drawer and worked to extract the metal drum from the open chassis. Finally, the cylinder came loose, heavy in his hands. Setting it aside, he plucked each individual tooth from the steel comb that remained in the box. Every tooth specified a note; Several were out of tune. He stored in his memory, the tone of each.

Erik selected several pages of composition paper from his stores in one of his drawers, along with his vial of ink.

Again, he grasped the cylinder, and held it against the comb, alining each pin with its respective tooth. Holding the drum in front of his eyes, he found the break where the tune repeated itself. A pen soon found itself poised ready between eager fingers.

He worked meticulously, though with increasing despondency, as his focus shifted between drum and paper. With a frustrated groan, he slammed his pen to the surface of his desk and rested his head heavily in the palm of his hand, staring at the drum with a deep sigh.

Hadn't he learned by now never to raise his hopes? They would only ever be crushed.

In these arid deserts, water and rain were more than a blessing. To its people, it was life. Yet to iron they were nothing less than a curse. The rot of the wood had permitted moisture between its cracked seams, leaving metal components defenseless to a creeping, deadly assault. The metal of the drum was plagued with more rust than Erik had anticipated, and the hint of the melody he had heard and yearned for continued to escape him. He stared at the blank white of his composition paper. Several long parts with missing, along with with individual notes scattered throughout.

Still, Erik, even though disheartened, retrieved the violin from the corner and pulled it reverently from its leather case. For far too long he had been parted from it, unwilling to risk damage in the commotion of the palace's construction. Its bow would need rosin, especially after its long period of disuse.

The task was complete, he set the violin against his bare chin and eased the bow to the strings. He played several familiar songs, small exercises for fingers that had suffered from a long period without practice. Nimble once more, he switched his focus. The melody that remained were not particularly extensive, but still beautiful as it sung from the strings. To Erik, it was reminiscent of a somber lullaby, though not Persian in origin. After playing the broken score several times over, he replaced the violin to its case.

And while the source of the tune still eluded him, the feeling it elicited did not. An oddly nostalgic melody, it spurred in Erik a bittersweet sense of sadness and pain that he could not explain. He could not be deterred, however; it would come to him eventually. It had to.

Unwilling to delay the complete overhaul of his project, he replaced his mask and collected both himself and a small bag, making a mental list of the needed items crucial for the repairs. Once outside, he took special care to lock the door behind him. Word must have spread of his impending return to Tehran, and he would not make himself vulnerable.

Erik kept to back-alleys, ducked into darkened streets. He would not now boast his presence to the public. While the Shah wanted to know only when he arrived, continued movements would undoubtedly be reported back to the Khanum, with the way the woman obsessed about him. A sighting of the Dark Angel outside his hell would only lead to the unnecessary, irritating prodding that Erik endeavored to avoid.

At his destination, the lock was undone and the door was open, swinging on its hinges. Looking about the small, personal workshop, he stood in the entryway. It was an eclectic room. Tools were strewn about; various inventions and unfinished projects rested on every open surface. Bright reams of fabric were subdued only by the dim lighting, as every window was veiled.

Rustling came from a far corner.

Erik cleared his throat to announce his presence, to which a small, gray-haired man looked up to acknowledge him. Erik saw him raise his hand, as if to wave, but realizing his company, seemed to think better of it and sharply turned away, back to work.

Erik thought nothing of the mechanic's aloof old Persian was a man of few words and Erik had long past come to an understanding with him. Erik was free to collect any part or piece he desired. The bundles of fabric and silk were at his disposal. The tools that lined the shelves would often leave on his person, only to be replaced by his next visit.

A silent agreement had been settled in which Erik would leave much more than adequate compensation in a small box on the countertop, allowing the elderly man an incredibly generous profit for his wares.

But there had been a time when he was not so well welcomed:

He had been coming here for weeks, in the dead of night. He could not simply enter the store, or ask a vendor, knowing that he was being so closely watched. The risk was too great, and no local dared to pay him any heed, in fear of interrogation and prosecution. The Khanum, in her paranoid suspicion, wished to keep Erik on much too tight a leash.

The door was locked this night; it never had been before when he first found the small workshop. The lock was no obstacle, picked open within seconds, and Erik thought nothing more of it. He came tonight only for sketching parchment and a supply of horsehair for his bow. Neither the Shah nor his insufferable mother knew of his affinity for creating music and the less they knew of his personal affairs, the better.

He hummed to himself as he searched for the items. Locating them, Erik procured a handful of coins, as usual, over double in worth than the items he held in his hands, and left them in plain view. As he turned to leave, however, he nearly ran full force into the small Persian man that stood in the way of his escape.

Stopping just short, Erik glared at the man. He did not risk saying anything, not wanting to frighten the Persian into running off in a frenzy. Certainly a masked man, especially with the rumors of Erik's dark, deadly persona, should send the man yelling for his life, alerting the police?

Perhaps the Daroga would be amused by Erik's current escapades before the exasperation set in. Erik could already hear his sigh and picture the shake of his head in frustration.

Instead, the mechanic stared at Erik with narrowed eyes before purposefully shifting his gaze to the pile of money. Erik's wait for him to finally comment was unfruitful, as the Persian simply gave a small nod and moved out of Erik's way. He settled into a small chair in his workshop, working on one small project or another, ignoring Erik's presence.

When Erik returned after another week, the Persian was nowhere to be found, but a small box sat in the spot where the money had been left.

Erik later acquired some information on the elderly man, purely out of curiosity. He had worked for the Shah as a mechanic before retiring shortly after he had been widowed over a decade ago. From what Erik knew, the man had no family and few friends and lived off the small pension he received from the Persian government for his long years of service. Erik had never bothered to find a name.

Over these years in Persia, Erik had infiltrated these walls. Most times, he endeavored to make himself no more than a small disturbance. Other times, he would work alongside the small Persian. Once or twice he had sung to himself as he worked in the man's presence or showed off a new invention. Every time, the man smiled to acknowledge Erik and then returned to his own task. Their relationship had been a silent one, with only nods and gestures to relay their intent. But it had also been one of mutual respect… and perhaps a touch of fondness.

Now, Erik moved swiftly through the room, opening drawers, aptly finding the parts that would fit his needs. Over the years, he had come to know this workshop just as well as its owner.

Various components were shoved into the bag. He turned to the shelves of fabric. The monkey would need a new robe, would it not? He settled upon a silk pattern of blue design and red accent.

He set down his bag and knelt as he rifled through another cabinet, intent on locating the long, sharp pair of scissors that resided there. Just as he was pulling out the sharp instrument, he was startled by the hand that settled firmly on his shoulder. He whirled around, standing erect, hand firmly locked around the wrist of the individual who now dared accost him. Scissors were raised, ready to strike.

As Erik recognized the elderly Persian, cowering in fear, he cursed his irrepressible instincts. At the smallest notion of a threat, he responded violently, even when all logic detailed the ridiculousness of the response — especially in what he knew was a safe environment. He relaxed almost immediately, setting aside the improvised weapon and dropping the offending limb.

However, upon seeing the anxious expression in the man's eyes as they darted back and forth, focused everywhere but on the masked man, Erik recalled the tension of the hand that had graced his shoulder. His defenses immediately went up.

Erik widened his eyes in question.

The Persian opened his mouth, but hesitated, no sound emerging. He bit his lip firmly and lowered his head, breathing deeply for several moments. Finally, in a choking, gravely voice, one of the many casualties of the heat and grit that defined Persian air, the man spoke.

Those three words were the first and of the last that Erik would ever hear him speak:

"You must leave."

At the demand, Erik was at first confused, but then could feel the burgeoning anger that accompanied it. This man was to strip him of the one resource he had? He scoffed.

"Leave? You wish to bow out now? After all this time? I give you a damn near bloody fortune, and this is how you repay me?" Erik questioned, incredulous. But the man was silent, shaking his downcast head, and forcibly thrust Erik's bag into his arms.

"You would dare—" Erik was cut off as the old Persian raised his head and laid his hands gently on Erik's upper arms, the highest part he could reach of Erik's tall form. Though near irate, Erik's anger was thrown by the expression of pure grief in the man's eyes, baffled by their aching sincerity.

"Leave," the Persian gave Erik a light shake, as if to emphasize the point. "Please," his tone begged. He released Erik's arms and shook his head. "There is nothing left for you here," his voice cracked. "I'm sorry."

Before the man could escape, however, as he tried to back away, Erik clamped a hand around his shoulder. The old man looked as if he was going to pass out.

Erik recognized the fear that came over the man's face — a deadly fear... Sullenly, Erik knew that the old Persian had every rational right and reason in the world to cut all ties with the Angel of Death. Erik had no right to share his space as he had become accustomed to. He had risked the man's life ever coming here in the first place, fooled himself by thinking they were safe. He had dug his grave, and he must lay in it. He would not have any others suffer the consequence of being buried with him. A coffin only had room for one, after all.

"Tell me," Erik commanded, strident, though less harsh. "You are being threatened? The Shah, or his guards, they have come to you? About me?" His hand gripped harder, with growing concern. "I will leave, but you must tell me," he nearly growled.

The old Persian refused to speak, only shaking his head in response. Erik could see the tears threatening to spill at his eyes.

"Tell me, goddammit!" Erik roared. He felt his throat clench.

The Persian continued to shake in his hands. "No," he mumbled, near inaudible. "No... not me." Erik, increasingly confused, let the Persian gently wrestle the hand away from his shoulder. "Go... Go now and leave here." he said, voice shaking. Their eyes met one final time and it was in that final glance that Erik caught something else in the man's eyes — a plea, begging for Erik to understand some unspoken truth.

He didn't.

Erik stared after the man as he backed away slowly until darting away, no longer in view. Coming back to himself, Erik stepped forward, ready to call out and force the Persian to return and explain.

Yet, he thought better of it. Instead, he threw his bag over his shoulder, brow furrowed. The small Persian had shown him enough kindness over the years that if he wanted Erik to go, he would go, no matter how it perplexed him. No matter how little he understood.

And he would not return.

From his pocket, he retrieved the full content of his purse, along with the few gems he had snagged from the palace and tossed it all in the same spot he always did, in that same small, metal box. It would be enough for the old Persian to escape, if need be, and create a life somewhere anew.

Erik would not have his actions, his decisions ruin another once again. He could not add another weight to a conscious that had long ago reached its capacity.

He did not look back as he made his leave. It was darker now, fixed, empty shadows lurked in every shaded corner. The streets had quieted with the impending setting of the sun. The air was still, stagnate, the onset of dusk having done little to temper the torrid heat.

And as he walked through those streets, he could not help his mind from drifting to what had gone wrong… to what had precipitated such a severance of acquaintance. There was no question, however. Erik knew why. He knew what he was and while he may have once tried to forget, the world never would.

He was a monster, a beast, no better than a rabid, mangy cur. No… he was worse than any dog; dogs knew to stop when they'd been beaten. Erik only growled louder as he sank his teeth in further, deeper into bitter flesh.

And also, like a dog, his senses sharp… Erik knew when he was being watched. The less observant may never have noticed the change, but upon entering the palace, Erik knew. He had disguised his return, but had not bothered concealing his presence thereafter. The corridors, as usual, teemed with guards, most pointedly ignoring Erik's form.

But a few, the one now posted at the palace gate, the one that patrolled the empty courtyard, another that protected the route to the harem… these were men that Erik recognized, men that had witnessed first-hand the Angel of Death at his deadly game, while others knew only rumors. These were the men who were always the first to avert their eyes in a loathing respect for the Shah's Devil.

These were the men that now stared, letting their gazes linger a moment too long.

Long enough for Erik to catch the hungry gleam in one's eyes, the leery stare of another, and a snide satisfaction in the last.

Odd…

They stared at him with distaste, surveying every movement. As if they had permission to do so.

He should have expected this, however. This was a city of paranoia, of cynical distrust. Erik's presence had long been absent from the Capital and if the Shah or his detestable mother wished to keep tabs on Erik, with their shifty facades of indifference, Erik could only attempt to deter their insolent intrusions. Perhaps he had not been careful enough in his departure from the palace. Perhaps they had heard of his confrontation with the portly vendor.

As he neared his apartment, the patrol thinned, but once motionless shadows stirred in the darkness. Footsteps that were always silent now echoed.

Over the years, Erik had come to learn to trust his instincts, and as his suspicion grew, he came to realize one thing. The old mechanic… Erik's initial impression was wrong. It was not a simple betrayal of confidence in their timid acquaintance. It was not a meaningless severance of ties designed solely for self-preservation. No...

It was a warning.

And as he attempted to unlock the door to his apartment... he realized with growing dread, that it was already undone.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

July 1868, Persia

The Daroga walked the familiar route, bottle in hand. The sun wavered on the horizon, casting the usually yellow stone in various shades of red and purple. The air was quiet on this particular path, empty, save for the single guard on duty. Nadir nodded to him as he went, but went ignored in his acknowledgement.

He reached his destination, not in the deep recesses of the palace as one might expect of its occupant, but instead in the central housing quarters, not far from the Daroga's own. For what lay within, the door to the chamber appeared eerily normal, the wood a few shades too light from the bleaching sun and the brass handle smooth from decades of use. It was a home like any other.

Nadir heard no sound from beyond the door, typical for the residence of a man who drifted through the world as a ghost. Only a few times before entering had Nadir heard anything from within. The melodies, the intricate tunes played by an expert's hand had left him awestruck. The Daroga had always known the overwhelming authority of Erik's voice. He had slowly come to understand the quiet, nuanced depth of the masked man's private compassion for music and all it entailed.

No notes currently emanated from the abode.

A fist raised to the rough surface of door, Nadir knocked, four times in steady rhythm, as Erik had once instructed he do. By Erik's insistence, it was the way to announce the Daroga's singular presence. A measure of security, his paranoid friend had claimed.

Nadir waited. Ten seconds, then twenty passed — long enough for Erik to reach the door — had he been present and wanted to do so.

Trying the handle, the door was locked. Nadir reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, thin piece of metal. Erik was not the only individuals with certain skills — the particular one of lock-picking was enormously helpful as the Chief of Police. The Daroga had often wondered why Erik had not opted for a more elaborate, reliable system. Then again, who would willingly intrude on the domain of the Angel of Death? In that regard, Nadir found himself sorely alone.

Accustomed to entering Erik's home without the magician's presence, Nadir thought nothing of manipulating the lock to permit his entrance. He would simply sit in one of the armchairs — the smaller red one opposite the large black — and doze as he waited. He knew that Erik was never far.

And so, with a flick of the wrist and a small click, the lock gave way, revealing the darkened chamber. Nadir closed the door lightly behind him and looked about. It had many months since he had been there.

It was an open area: the aforementioned small sitting area with the two armchairs had a small table between them in the center of the room. A long, cluttered desk lined one wall as a small kitchen remained in a poor state of disuse in a far corner. So far was the chamber removed from usual Persian decor, lacking the opulent colors and luxuriant arrays of pillow typical in more traditional apartments, that Nadir nearly doubted he still resided in his homeland at all.

Elegant but worn tapestries covered dual windows, casting the room into greater darkness as they blocked out the intruding sun, fading as it was. Dried herbs and various other goods hung in ropes from the ceiling. Besides the scattered items residing on the old desk, every article had its place. Bookshelves had not a volume out of order and every trinket had its home. It was the dwelling of a man who had grown accustomed to solitude.

A large collection of papers, several mechanical trinkets, as well as a few pools of wire of varying thickness littered the area of the desk. The stuffed visage of a sad-looking monkey in ragged robes, next to a broken, rotten crate caught Nadir's eye for only a moment. Erik was always working on one project or another. On the chair, Nadir recognized the familiar violin case, open, the instrument within it gleaming even in darkness. Next to it, a full glass of wine sat abandoned.

Ah, so his friend was not too far astray.

Nadir crossed the small threshold and placed the bottle of Arak on the small table between the two armchairs. He lowered himself in the chair he thought as his alone. Who else was welcomed into its worn expanse? The tattered fabric, the lumpy seat? The memory came to him from when he had once tried to convince Erik to get rid himself of the incongruous piece of furniture, to instead opt for a newer piece that conformed to the rest of his somber quarters.

From the suggestion, Nadir could still hear Erik's scathing, sarcastic tone.

"And please tell me who I am loathe to impress, Daroga? Ah right, I remember — I am hosting a dinner party in a fortnight and I am expected to impress such righteous guests, correct? Shall we take a trip to the local carpenter?"

And so the chair had remained, Nadir suspected out of pure spite. Perhaps Erik found a sadistic enjoyment out of observing the typically reserved Daroga in its ostentatious expanse. Bet despite its gaudy design, and without another option in which to recline, he had come to think of it as his alone.

With time, those same lumps, though irritating at first, had come to conform solely to him. Now, it was almost comfortable, though Nadir would be remiss if he ever admitted as such. Erik would never let him hear the end of it. Still, no one else was welcomed to it, Erik made sure. The Daroga alone would ever be its sole inhabitant.

He closed his eyes, resting them, if only for a moment. But with the fading sun, he could feel himself dozing off.

After a time from which Nadir could not decide had last for six minutes or sixty, he heard a slight click from the door behind him. However, while the entrance was silent as Erik's always was, Nadir could hear a poorly restrained, nervous breathing that was so unlike his masked friend. He tensed. Unconsciously Nadir shifted his foot from where he sat hidden by the tall back of the chair. The breathing stopped.

The weight of dusk had fully set in, only obscurely outlined shadows discernible in the curtained room. Nadir could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end at a shift in the air. He could feel the presence behind him, coming around to his right. Closer… closer… around the right side.

Nadir reached to his robes, fingers grasping around the handle of the dagger he always kept on his person, ready to defend himself.

Before he could react, he felt a tight hand around his neck, squeezing hard. Suddenly, he was pulled harshly to his feet. He raised the weapon, ready to strike.

"Daroga?" Came the confused voice. Though the hand was still wrapped around his windpipe, it loosened.

"E… Er… Erik?" Nadir choked out in relief, dropping the dagger to the floor. At the struggling sound and accompanying metallic clangor, his throat was released, the abusing hand jerking away as if burned. As the dark shadow that had hovered over him darted away, Nadir doubled over, coughing. He fell back to the chair, eyes shut tightly, chest heaving. Seconds later, Nadir thought he heard something that could only be described as a sigh of relief, accompanied by a vague, nervous laugh.

"The Daroga," Nadir made out between strained, heavy breathing. "Only the Daroga… that infuriating Daroga." Another laugh… a high pitched groan…

He expected Erik to say something else, perhaps explain what had just happened between them. Yet, his friend seemed… off. Erik continued to mumble incoherently to himself, pacing back and forth across the room with a heavy gate. Eventually, the pacing slowed and Nadir heard a loud rustling at the desk, as if the contents of a bag were being poured out quite unceremoniously onto polished wood. The sounds of clinking metal, frantic rustling of papers, and then the urgent scratching of pen on parchment emanated from the area to Nadir's right, across the room. A few irregular notes of violin soon accompanied the increasingly intense cacophony.

The gasping breaths from both parties finally quieted.

Erik continued to choose to pointedly ignore his presence. And while his throat still burned, he could not help the growing concern he felt for the architect. For so long, save for those private moments few and far between, he had thought of Erik as more of specter than man, defying the physical form. To hear him so… frenzied… was disconcerting.

After several minutes of this, Nadir could no longer maintain his silent vigil.

Nadir wanted, no… needed, to know what had caused this change, what had sent the magician into a state so unlike himself. However, to be straightforward in his inquiry would get him nothing but avoidance or perhaps a snide remark. The tension in the room was thick, and yet the Daroga was at a loss of how to cut it. Concern? Anger? Bewilderment? Humor?

Each option had its risks and benefits, but, as he knew Erik could only ever be predictable in his unpredictability in his response, required an astute judgment beyond his current capabilities. Yet, he would do anything to relieve that tension.

To him, the choice was evidently clear.

"My, my, Erik," Nadir started with tactfully applied joviality. "For someone who takes so much pride in resembling a ghost, you sound rather lively over there. I should have expected it. A real ghost would have recognized its victim before trying to strangle him."

The racket dissolved into silence. A long moment passed. Nadir's eyes darted back and forth as he sat rigid in his chair. He would soon find that perhaps he had indeed chosen poorly.

"Daroga… you dare mock me?" Erik spat with cold anger from his desk. "Here I am, having only just returned from constructing a palace for your Shah, and you have the audacity to questions my actions in the only sanctuary I have left? A home you dared to enter without invitation or even without warning? You could not have even had the wherewithal to reset the lock behind you? Have I not told you? Did I not have the right to protect myself?" His typically smooth, collected cadence of speech had dissolved into broken sentences as he gasped for breath between every few words.

Nadir levered himself from the chair, hands stretched out protectively in front of him. He was ready to attempt to assuage Erik's sudden indignation, a response he had certainly not hoped for. He kept his voice low, calm, controlled, even as he was taken aback by the sudden hostility of his masked friend.

"Believe me, Erik, I truly meant no harm, I…"

"I have not… endured these last years suffering your… succubus of a queen, dirtying my hands with the blood of… your scum, wearing those same hands to the bare knuckles of bone for your King's palace… to be ridiculed by the asinine nuisance of a Daroga that cannot even have the… common decency to lock the door behind him!" Voice raising in degrees, Erik pushed himself out of the desk chair so roughly that it fell over onto the ground. A few papers fluttered to the ground at the rush of air. "Would it be so very wrong to string you up by these very rafters from where you stand?" His voice dropped, threatening.

Nadir saw him reaching into the sleeve of his dark robes, those yellow, predatory eyes narrowing. As he loomed nearer, the Persian backed up in self defense, his hand creeping up instinctively towards the level of his eyes. He swallowed deeply. He could feel the sheen of the sweat starting to form on his brow, breath catching in his throat. "Erik… Erik!" He tried to coax, but there would be no appealing to the man within. This was no longer Erik. No… this was the Angel of Death that had so rightfully earned its moniker. Another aggressive step forward, the lasso was drawn out in full, laced through the trembling fingers of a manic assassin. Nadir reached into the robes to again find his dagger, but realized his foolish abandonment of his only defense much too late.

Suddenly, Erik stopped in his advance. The reflected gold of his eyes darted back and forth. Shoulders drooping, he ran a shaking hand over his masked face, shaking his head as he sighed deeply several times, as if attempting to control his rapid breathing. Nadir widened his eyes in confusion at the abrupt shift in demeanor.

After several moments to seemingly regain his lost control, Erik stood straight, chin raised defiantly, even as he chewed on his lower lip. Forcing his breathing to steady, his previously jarring tone melted into one of forced levity, "However, with such a poor excuse for a jest, I cannot even deem you worthy of such… retaliation. Besides, I do not believe the beams could support your… generous weight."

Erik retreated several unbalanced steps, still breathing harshly despite his efforts, back turned to the Daroga. Even the insult he had just thrown seemed strained, not nearly as biting as he as intended. Nadir could only force a nervous laugh in response, eyes still pinned on Erik's back, making sure that this was not some elaborate ruse, even as his worry grew.

As the Daroga, he was more than proficient in subduing an adversary, but against The Angel of Death, he had seen too many lifeless bodies carried away even when all odds were stacked against the deadly assassin. He felt a flush of relief flood through him at the thought of avoiding a potentially violent confrontation, although he could feel the sudden warmth of his face as he combated with the sudden heat of embarrassment at his inane comment.

Yet, Nadir had never witnessed Erik completely fall into a rage simply at one of his well-meaning quips. He had expected, perhaps, a return insult, the comfortable exchange of banter, a rather painless method to break Erik from his distracted fervor. And despite Erik being relatively unpredictable creature, the Daroga had come to recognize the discernible triggers — lines he understood to cautiously avoid. Typically, he felt comfortably equipped to handle his irascible companion. Now, he was simply unsure on how to handle his swelling unease at the man's uncharacteristic disquiet.

Taking a deep breath to collect himself first, "In the future, I will be more careful in my word selection," he managed to say, even as the words were nearly chocked.

Erik ignored him, energy focused on uprighting the wooden chair back to its legs, leaning down to retrieve the few papers that had drifted beneath and around the desk. He took several moments to apparently set them again in the correct order.

Finally, he spoke accusingly, with all the cold control returned to his voice, "In the future, you will be more careful in locking the door behind you when you invade my chambers. You will announce your presence the moment you hear me enter. And… and you will have a drink poured and ready for me."

The last part he said as seriously as the first, but as he turned to again look to the Daroga, the latter could see a glint had returned to the former's eyes.

"Oh… Erik…" Nadir murmured under his breath, so softly that even Erik could not hear it even as he drew nearer. Nadir, shaking his head in humored disbelief as he returned to the post of his chair, wiped the sweat from his brow and laid a weary forehead into the palm of his hand. "I may have actually succeeded in that last condition of yours," He said, indicating the bottle of Arak that remained on the side table.

Erik looked down, appearing to have noticed the clear vintage for the first time. Nadir swore he saw the man lick his lips in anticipation, before standing up straight in a show of flippant disregard, the nose of his mask upturning.

"That does not validate the reason for your uninvited presence, Daroga." Droll indifference dripped from his tone, "Nor your incapacity to follow simple requests. For someone who supposedly prides himself on the precedent of outstanding morals, you certainly make a habit of breaking and entering."

Nadir raised an eyebrow at Erik's apparent good humor. Over the years, he had come to anticipate the abrupt shifts in mood, but had never completely adjusted to the sudden fluctuations, or whether or not the mood was even sincere. "If you wanted to keep me out, you would have acquired a more complicated lock. Perhaps not changing it shows how much you truly relish my intrusions."

Though Nadir could not seen the man's full expression, the scoff was more than enough to reflect his mocking distaste. Nadir sensed a scowl independent of the mask's engraved expression. The black mask, from what the Daroga had learned was carefully formed leather, covered most of Erik's face. Only the thin bottom lip, chin, and very edge of his jaw were visible. With the dark covering, Nadir could only barely tell where the mask ended and the inky expanse of hair, kept long and pulled back loosely with a tie, began. Accompanied by his perfectly black choice of attire, he was a shadow in every sense of the word.

"I was merely hoping that you eventually abandon your helpless need to grace me with your constant presence and I would not have to go through any worthless trouble." His faze drifted once again to the bottled liquor on the table. "At the very least, you have somewhat replenished my dwindling supplies. It is one of the very few reasons that I suffer your intolerable incursions. Although you have neglected to have it poured and ready."

Nadir rolled his eyes before opening his mouth to inform Erik of the bottle's origin: a gift from the Shah for the commencement of Erik's commission. But the words died on his lips as Erik turned away swiftly, supposedly aimed towards the small kitchen.

In a blink, Erik had returned and procured two small glasses clutched in a single hand, although Nadir saw they were filled partly with water, but notably absent of ice. After settling into the large black chair that accompanied Nadir's own, Erik set both vials on the table and proceeded to pour in each a certainly healthy amount. As the distinctive alcohol mixed with water, the drink transformed into its characteristic milky white coloration.

Nadir waved his palms dismissively in front of him. "Erik, surely you realize that I must decline."

In response, Erik simply picked up one of the glasses and dipped in a long, pale finger, examine the swirling patterns that formed as he mixed the drink gently. "And who ever said that I was offering?" Erik replied. "I am certain the quality of this vintage would be wasted upon your lips. It is surprising that for someone who supposedly abstains from the bottle, you surprisingly selected an acceptable draught."

Erik brought one of the glasses to his lips, breathing in the scent for only a moment before taking only a small sip. Nadir again attempted to correct Erik in the Arak's true origins, but Erik held up a finger with clear intent, a silent request that Nadir withhold any current comment, distracting the Daroga from his clarifications.

Erik closed his eyes in concentration, licking his lips as he tested the flavor of the drink. He took another sip. Nodding his head subtly, "Obviously needs ice. Perhaps more bitter than I would prefer, but one must learn not to be too critical of the draughts in this country… with its putrid heat." Erik gestured to the deserted glass on his desk, "Anything that does not taste like vinegar is a damned near Bordeaux."

"I would not know," Nadir mumbled to himself. He had been tempted to drink. Yes, his life had seen enough travesties to tempt any man with the bottle, but he had always refrained.

"A pity, really," Erik continued. "I find a touch of alcohol wholesomely profitable in dealing with your infuriating breed."

Nadir leaned back in his chair as he watched Erik bring the edge of the glass against his bottom lip before he paused. Tilting his head curiously, eyes narrowed on the veiled window, fixated. Nadir sat up and twisted his back to look at the window himself, trying to discern what had caught his friend's attention. Nothing, however, appeared displaced. The last vestiges of soft twilight filtered through tapestries that waved softly in the breeze.

"Whatever are you staring at?" Nadir questioned, leaning forward even further to catch a different angle. Erik did not answer him immediately, but slowly tore his gaze from whatever he had been so focused upon.

"Nothing," was the curt reply. "Just a wayward shadow." Erik settled back into his chair.

"A late falcon, perhaps?" Nadir suggested.

"Perhaps."

Replacing the glass to his lips, Erik tilted his head back and drained the entire contents of the small glass. With only a single breath between, he repeated the same action with the second glass. He looked pointedly at the Daroga, who understood it as an invitation to say something in retort.

Nadir would not take the bait. Would he like to suggest that Erik cherish the craftsmanship of the drink, as the supply was so limited, especially in the capital? Perhaps, but the man's habits were his own and we would not take kindly to the Daroga's skepticism. Certainly anything he had to say would only be met with disdain and scathing retaliation. Besides, a hint of intoxication had always made Erik more tolerable to endure.

They sat there quietly for a few minutes, listening to the breeze through the window. The city was quiet beyond. Erik stood. First lighting a small candle, he refilled his glass with water, mixing another drink. This one, Nadir noted appreciatively, Erik would favor to indulge slowly, savoring it.

Erik's gaze remained fixated on the cloudy liquid in his glass, the light of the candle reflecting against the glass. He shook it softly, aerating the drink.

"It seems you remain in the Shah's favor," Nadir started, hoping that conversation would break the silence of the ever-darkening room.

Erik, however, only gave a near silent grunt in response, sampling another small sip of his Arak. Closing his eyes, he reclined against the expanse of his armchair, sipping periodically. With Erik's earlier outburst, Nadir could not begrudge the evening turning to silence. He could not force the man to engage in conversation against his will.

The Daroga took advantage of the quiet, taking in the appearance of the man who had earned and defied so many labels. With the combination of black upholstery, Erik's preference for dark garments, and his lithe figure, the man nearly disappeared completely, swallowed by the grand depths. Except for the slight twitching of a single finger, he was completely still, only adding to the illusion. Only the slight flicker of flame betrayed his corporal form.

Caught in contemplation, Nadir almost startled when the silence suddenly broke.

"The Shah's good favor is as fleeting as a locust in a breeze, Daroga. It would be foolish to think that I would remain in it indefinitely."

"With the palace finished, I would think that the Shah would be content, at least for the time being," Nadir replied. However, even he could not help but feel a sinking suspicion. This was Persia, after all. All commodities were expendable. Eventually, the man, all that he was —magician, architect, assassin, Angel of Death — would become more of liability that a benefit. His usefulness to the Shah was finite. It would fade.

"And what do you know of my current standing in the court?" Erik retorted, tone steady, yet fringed with malice. "What have you heard? Such an important man as yourself should be privy to all the dirty secrets of court. Hmm? Am I expected to return to that pit of spectacle? Displays of combat? Assassinations? Parlor tricks?"

At the sudden shift in mood of conversation, the Daroga had no response as watched as Erik became more and more tense, the fingers of his unoccupied hand now trembling. They closed into a tightly bound fist as if to stop their ministrations, although the knuckles continued to shift. His chest rose and fell with a shudder, as if trying to control his hastening breath.

With a small shake of the head, Erik finished the last of his drink.

"You have spent much more time in court than I, as of late. If you know anything of the Shah's opinion, Daroga, do please elaborate. Is he not pleased with his palace? Was his reprobate mother not sufficiently entertained during my long absence? I will not see myself a plaything to be trifled with." His voice had not raised, but sharpened its edge with tension. Nadir saw the muscles on the edge of his tightly-skinned jaw clench and loosen in rhythm.

"I have heard some whispers of your dubious status in the royal court, but suspicions have always remained underfoot, Erik. You cannot be what you are and not expect to have rumors follow your every step. It is no more or less that what you have known these last years" Nadir forced himself to reply calmly, to remain a level state of mind. He refused to fall into the depths of Erik's fire.

"And what would be the nature of these whispers, Daroga. Do they now hold validity when before they had not?" Erik spat, leaning forward to interrogate — to intimidate. In the closer proximity, Nadir could finally see the true depths of his burning eyes, narrowed in anger, although tinged with… something else…

Nadir groaned. These conversations always ended with Erik offended in some matter, with Nadir retreating, hoping only to placate the man.

The Daroga refused to back down, tail between his legs. He had dealt with more criminals and self-righteous politicians to be deterred by the inflammatory frenchman. "Please, Erik. I meant nothing by it. I only meant to say you will always have individuals who do not understand your station with the Shah and would likewise plot to have you removed from it. Mere gossip. It is nothing new, Erik."

"Ever rumor bears a semblance of truth, Daroga," His voice came out strained. "Certainly… an individual of… your position… should know more… than the little… chattering… birds of this great cou—" Erik abruptly paused and looked away. He nearly missed it, but Nadir was certain that he heard a small moan as Erik winced, bringing his fingers to his temple.

"Are you quite alright, Erik?" If possible, the flesh behind the mask appeared to grow even paler. "Perhaps you should—" Nadir reached towards the glass clutched so impossibly tightly in Erik's hand that Nadir feared it would shatter.

Erik immediately straightened, flinching away from the Daroga's advance. Regaining his air of composure, "Do not be ridiculous, Daroga. I am not naive to the effects of liquor. It is simply… a small… headache." He continued to rub his temple. "I am perfectly… fine."

The Daroga was not fooled by the act. Erik's voice, though fronted with a veneer of banality, could not hide the undercurrent of discomfort. That was what he had seen in Erik's eyes — pain — even as he tried to hide it.

"Erik, I do not believe you are." Nadir examined Erik's hunched shoulders, labored breathing, paling complexion. "You look positively ill."

"I am fine," Erik enunciated between gritted teeth, unconvincing as he had dropped his face into his hands, no longer even able to support an upright posture, leaning heavily against the side of the chair. He rocked slightly back and forth, his entire body visibly shaking as he did.

Nadir leaned forward, reaching out to feel the pulse point on Erik's wrist. He was promptly swatted away. Undeterred, he retreated, but continued to press for information, "Erik, have you eaten anything questionable, done anything at all out of the ordinary? That wine you had earlier — you said it was spoilt — how much did you…"

Nadir was cut off as Erik looked up, eyes widened. Looking at the Daroga intensely, his voice was thin and rough, "The Arak… W-where did you say y-you acquired it?"

Nadir suddenly realized that despite his attempts, between his distractions and Erik's heated temper, he had neglected in relaying that fine detail.

"It… it was a gift from the Shah for the commencement of your commission. The Khanum had it brought to my chamber earlier. She requested I give it to you, but I do not know what that has to—"

Nadir was cut off by a barrage of firm knocks on the door. For some reason a wave of suspicion and anxiety came over him. It was an odd feeling - he was not prone to nervousness. Of course, it was not unusual for Erik to be called upon the Royal Court in the later hours, although he doubted Erik desired company at the present moment.

Erik could not be bothered to rise from his position, his eyes glazed over as he brought his hands up to cover his ears. It seemed to Nadir that whatever was behind that door was of little consequence to Erik.

There was another affront on the wood, louder and more harsh.

Nadir rose to answer, crossing the threshold of the darkened apartment. He paused briefly only to ignite a small oil lamp. The knocking was becoming insistent. Nadir grasped the handle, pulling the door open.

"Merde! Do not open that damned door! Daroga!"

Nadir furrowed his brow, confused, but the door was already half opened, he surely could not abandon it now. Whatever reason could Erik have against a courier at this time of night? Nadir could receive the message and then send him on his way. Erik would not even have to leave his chair.

Years later, Nadir would wonder if he had listened, if Erik had given him more warning as to his suspicions. If that evening had gone any differently than it had.

Still, the door swung open, silent on its hinges. The draining light from the corridor beyond creeped into the room.

"Ah, Daroga! Have you succeeded in incapacitating the masked fiend?"


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

July 1868, Persia 

He had been a damned fool.

Even now, as any semblance of coherent thought threatened to abandon him, that truth echoed in his skull. Every rap upon the wooden door, each a dagger in his death’s head, only confirmed his suspicions. 

The wine from earlier... it had been spoilt. But the arak… the arak had still been palatable, the liquor strong, but relatively smooth. His thirst for the drink had overcome any misgivings he might have had. 

He realized he would now pay the price of his ignorance. He, the Angel of Death, to be brought to his knees by a cowardly poison. He could almost laugh at the thought. 

Unfamiliar with how the arak had been tainted, its effects were novel to him. It felt as if the breath had been suddenly knocked from his chest, escaping in short, strained gasps. His heart fluttered in his chest with uneven beats. Veins bulged in his temple as the pressure between his eyes built with sharp, intolerable throbs.

A chilled sweat came over him, his head swimming. He blinked several times as the room spun. Abandoning a fruitless effort to aright himself, he shut his eyes tightly. The knocks on the door became aggressive, a rightful assault against the wood. His hands clamped over his ears to block the incessant drumming, although it failed to lessen the roaring within his skull. Oh, how he wished to tear the offending appendage from whatever guard the Khanum had sent to apprehend him.

It all fit now. The old mechanic, the grievous stares, the shadows in the window… He should have known… 

He was no longer welcomed in this country; he had long overstayed his invite.

Erik cursed himself. The deplorable thing was… He had known. It was why he had approached the Daroga with such initial hostility, why he had been on edge since returning from Tehran. But he had arrogantly deemed the paranoia unheeded, sourced by unreasonable suspicion. He had dropped his ever-careful guard to allowed it to be replaced by belligerence. It was a mistake he would never forgive. Had he not learned long ago that his intuition was rarely mistaken?

He heard footsteps now, though cushioned by the threadbare rugs atop the worn stone, headed towards the door. Erik glanced up with eyes that refused to focus. 

Do not dare answer that door, you great booby. But no matter how Erik tried, the words cramped in his throat. Every attempt to to speak ended with a fresh wave of agony. With the click of the lamp, Erik drew away, shielding himself from the blinding light. 

Only after Nadir had undone the lock, only after he had turned the handle, only after the door creaked as it swung on its hinges was Erik able to finally wrestle his tongue into submission, to force out a strained command before the pain overtook him. His voice, once booming, now cracked. In a better state of mind, he would not dare lay any claim to it at all.

“Merde! Do not open that damned door! Daroga!”

But it was too late. Nadir had played his hand in this innocent betrayal and though the door wavered as it swung opened, there was nothing else to be done. Erik had since dropped his entire masked face to his hands, abandoning any semblance of composure.

He flinched at the next words.

“Ah, Daroga! Have you succeeded in incapacitating the masked fiend?”

Despite the pain, Erik raised his head in confusion. The Daroga had done this to him? No… no, that does not make sense. The Daroga, for all of his follies… he was a loyal man, a friend if he had ever had one. Erik never doubted where those loyalties lay. 

Through blurred vision, in the doorway stood one of the chief guards, Rahim Javan, if Erik’s addled mind remembered the man’s name correctly. He was a man of few triumphs and many failures, with a righteous feud against Erik. He was a tall man, taller than Nadir, but his height did not reach the absurdity of his own. He was, however, twice as broad and as muscled as an ox. 

The man was smirking at him, a suspicious look of smug triumph upon his face. Erik’s vision swam, eyes rolling.

Nadir had once told him of how the man had been recruited from the outskirts of the city, shortly before Erik’s own tenure. He was an infamous brawler who had won many a rich man his gamble. Rousing discord, the rumors of his brute strength had spread to the palace as quickly as they had throughout the city. The Khanum had been intrigued and thought the man would be an interesting addition to her growing, personal menagerie. 

In the arena, the man had made quick work of beasts and men alike, and soon made a name for himself. What he lacked in finesse he made up in a pure, carnal wasting of his assailant. And so, the crowds cheered.

But while careless bloodshed could satisfy a mob indefinitely, the Khanum soon grew bored and the Daroga was ordered to the East. The task was that of apprehending another curious individual, a magician who they had said was without a face, an otherworldly sort that made dead men sing, one who mastered both life and death alike. 

When he first arrived, perhaps the Khanum had been dissatisfied, bored with her new prize: the magician with a mask he refused to remove, who refused to shock the crowds with his hideousness. He was then only the foreigner who had the audacity to defy her whims before an impressionable crowd. 

Erik’s tricks had been amusing, but they were not enough to swallow an undermining of authority and blatant disrespect. Erik could commend her logic. She had thought to cut her losses and desiring one final, perverse display of entertainment, had set the magician against her favored warrior. For what was sleight of hand against a sharpened blade?

Erik had not yet won his infamous title, then only a magician and entertainer. He knew he had simply been seen as a strange, frail man with a mask and a pocket full of tricks. 

“I doubt you would find gratification in such an unfairly balanced contest, Khanum.” Rahim, then unfamiliar with Erik’s talents, boasted, laughter tinging his words. Those around him huffed in agreement. “But if you want me to put the skinny freak out of his misery, I would of course be willing to oblige.” 

Erik was slightly insulted, but maintained his steely composure. Instead, he kept his silence, imagining various scenarios of how to remove a wagging tongue from its insolent mouth. Speech had always been a privilege. With his perfected air of boredom, Erik casted an indifferent glance to the Khanum.

“Do you say nothing in response, magician?” she goaded.

“There is nothing left to say, Madame, if you have already grown so bored with my presence in your court.”

Still, she insisted upon a match, with a small cache of jewels as the prize, which Rahim eyed greedily. In his eyes, it was to be a substantial reward for such a seemingly uncomplicated task. 

The arena was set for sparring, each man equipped with a blades, the polished steel reflecting the harsh sun streaming in. 

The two stood opposite each other, the fingers of Rahim’s hand clenched around the hilt, knuckles pale with the force of it. In contrast, Erik held his lightly, running his finger gently over the sharpened curve of the edge as he examined it, appearing uninterested with the entire affair.

At the signal to start, Rahim barreled towards Erik, brandishing the long scimitar far above his head. Erik quickly sidestepped, parrying and bringing the hilt of his own sword down upon Rahim’s shoulder, throwing the man off balance. As he staggered to regain his stance, facing Erik, a look of disbelief swept over Rahim’s face, though it was soon replaced with ire. Dark eyes narrowed, he approached more cautiously, examining Erik’s every movement. 

The next slash of his blade was met with steel and every strike of metal against its match was another note of melody to which they danced. Rahim was the aggressor, Erik matching each stride in the close-ranged combat. His slight form masked a hidden strength as he countered each assault. A well-aimed elbow had blood streaming from the broader man’s nose and he reeled back with a cry.

The Khanum was obviously delighted at the turn of events, ablaze at the potential she saw in the man that would no longer simply be her Magician, if she had her way. A larger crowd had formed to watch the combat, and the din rose as the tell-tale noises of bets being called. 

As the two locked blades, eye-to-eye, noses mere inches apart, Rahim’s brute strength failed to overcome Erik’s and his eyes grew wide with confusion as he stared into his opponent’s narrowed own behind the mask. 

“What are you?” He spluttered, gasping for breath as the sweat washed over his brow and into his mouth. Erik smirked. 

Rahim grunted as Erik surged forward and disengaged, opening his stance and inviting Rahim’s hot aggression with a shallow bow. Erik was enjoying toying with the man, the sheep who thought himself the lion. Several times a quick parry and thrust would have sliced Rahim clean through and ended the ordeal. But Erik decided not to seize the opportunity, rather seeing how severely he could wreck the man’s reputation and pride with little outward effort of his own.

His opponent tired quickly, until he panted as a dog and staggered drunkenly in his fatigue, sword-hand at half-mast, everything that had once been threatening having left him. He winced in pain from the stinging where Erik's sword had but grazed him. 

A flick of his sword brought another shallow well of blood to the surface upon Rahim's skin. None were deep enough to scar significantly, not would they require a thread to bind. They were simply brushstrokes in deep red, upon a canvas of dirtied garb.

Finally, although all spirit had been sapped from Rahim’s limbs, he charged once more with a roar, sparked by his own outcry when he had nothing left to give. This, Erik knew and he had long since grown weary of the fight, bored with his long-bested opponent, and sought to end it.

There was a satisfaction in the strangled gasp of the lasso’s victim, the booming battle cry that died in his throat. A thin coil cut sharply into the glistening skin of its target’s neck. 

The small tug of Erik’s hand had Rahim collapsed to his knees, the sword falling clumsily from his fingers. His face plummeted into the dust, which mixed with blood and pouring sweat, crusting against his skin and scalp. He scratched at his throat, garnering only pity instead of purchase as he struggled to loosen the deadly thread, succeeding only in tightening it until he could no longer draw breath. The crowds cheered with fevered frenzy.

Another swift flick of the wrist, and Erik could snap the man’s neck with little remorse. He looked, however, for the Khanum’s judgement. As the crowds hollered, he knew they expected her to nod her approval, to quench their insatiable bloodlust, always eager to end the disgraced. 

But instead of the sickening crack the mob had anticipated, the lasso went slack and was promptly removed by Rahim’s still-scrambling fingers. The image of defeat, he curled inward and wheezed as air once more filled his lungs, tears falling.

A small shake of the Khanum’s head saved the man’s life but spurred a burgeoning resentment. 

“He’s… a damned… freak,” Rahim rasped, scrambling once more for his scimitar and finally able to pull himself from the dirt and onto unsteady feet. Stumbling, he waved the sword in Erik’s direction. “And he cheated.” Erik turned away as Rahim insisted that Erik had broken the rules.

“I was not aware that there were any,” Erik retorted. Seeing two more guards about to approach him, Rahim clenched his fist as if weighing his options before he threw the sword to the dirt and left of his own accord, seething in a cold rage. The Khanum had merely clapped, a conspiring glint to her eye. 

It was not long after that Erik had killed his first victim in earnest for the Knanum’s pleasure.

Humiliated, that had been the last of Rahim’s tenure in the arena. For three months, nothing had been seen of the man. When he returned, it was as a lowly guard in the Khanum’s service and none spoke of his belittling defeat. As the years had gone by, however, the memory of the man Erik had once disgraced mixed with all of the others, as many as there had been. He had not heard that Rahim Javan had reached the higher ranks of the guard, had earned back perhaps a portion of his esteem for his loyal service. And perhaps that was his first mistake.

Now, even through the pain, Erik could make out the satisfied glint in Rahim’s eyes. With his petty revenge, he enjoyed seeing Erik in pain, being a witness to Erik’s vulnerability. The coward basked in the power, flanked by a half-dozen armed men. Erik’s stomach tightened at the sight, his fingers tightening in response to the bubbling anger that now accompanied the pain in his skull, spurring him on.

He rose slowly, preferring the vantage of his tall stature. The knuckles of both his hands whitened with the grip he held onto the back of the chair. He spoke through clenched teeth, “Did you truly have any part in this ploy, Daroga?”

The man in question was positively struck, his mouth opening and closing in tandem, eyes wide, hands drawn up and tensely wavering. “No, no, of course n—“

“Ah! Erik! It’s been quite some time, has it not? And you, Daroga, we really do commend you for your efforts!” Rahim interrupted. “The Khanum had her doubts, yes, but you pulled through. The Shah was ecstatic with such a display of loyalty!" 

“Erik, I swear. I had no role in this plot, I—“

Erik struggled to follow as Nadir was cut off again as Rahim pulled his scimitar from its sheath and pointed it loosely at Erik. ”Perhaps the methods were a little unorthodox, but it seems we now share a similar policy on rules. How would you fancy a rematch, hmm?”

Erik ignored him, refusing to back down at the veiled threat even though his muscles twitched at the view of sword aimed at him. He wanted to respond. He wanted to reach into his robes and finally finish the job with his lasso. But he did not trust his body to obey him. 

His mind was hazy, and hindered his ability to think. He could feel the growing weight in his limbs and every movement brought a fresh wave of searing pain through his head. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he was failing to process the scene unraveling before him.

Had Nadir betrayed him? No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't.

Would he? 

Nadir had betrayed him. 

No. No, of course not.

Would he?

Erik wavered on his feet, light headed, as dark blotches impeded his vision and the pain made it impossible to distinguish fact from fiction. "Daroga! If you have regained enough of your senses, pray tell, as I am quickly losing mine!" 

Erik was disgusted at the weakness in his address. Was that his voice? He needed to remain alert. He needed to maintain control. But he could feel himself slipping in confusion and pain. No drug he had experienced had ever been this potent. He struggled to focus on the conversation, to wrap his mind around the change of his circumstances. 

He was losing this battle.

His sight faded, replaced by the vision of a weak light streaming in through the thin slats of the box that had once been his home for much too long. He could hear the yells of his master and the sickening laughter. The stench of his own filth filled his nostrils. His heart pounded along with the steady assault upon his imposed prison. 

No... that wasn't real... not anymore...

"Erik!" Shaking his head, Erik was brought back by the exclamation. "By Allah, I did not kn-"

Nadir was again cut once more by Rahim, who approached Erik slowly as spoke, the corners of his mouth turning up. He addressed the Daroga, but his gaze remained on Erik. "Did not know, Daroga? Why, the Khanum commended your very ingenuity! It is only natural that a man of your stature, the Daroga of Mezandaran —a Khan and no less!— would grow so bitter at being a dog on the heels of the Angel of Death.”

"No, that isn't tr-"

"Please, Daroga, believe me, I need no explanation for your choice of action. I can't imagine having to endure that demon for so many years! And you, Erik, oh so predictable!,” he mocked. “You infidels never could resist the touch of poison. But I digress.” Rahim took an aggressive step towards Erik, his sword directed at Erik's neck. The blade hovered only inches from the pulsing vein. 

Erik failed to react, his eyes closed as he fought to register the words of his assailant. His entire focus was on maintaining conscious and blocking out the pain, with trembling breaths. He forced himself to open an eye, glaring at the steel of the blade.

There was a sword in his face, it's bearer telling a tale of betrayal. The Daroga had given him the poisoned Arak. Nadir had been waiting for him. Nadir had brought that man here. That was a sword in his face. He had once embarrassed that man. Severely. He wanted him dead, yet he could not defend himself, not like this. He was going to be arrested. Thrown in a cell. He would be humiliated. They would take his mask. He was going to be tortured, stripped of all he is. They would see his face, a freak in a freak show. He was going to be put inside a cage, He would never be caged again.

At Erik’s lack of response, Rahim sneered and sheathed his sword, instead pulling out a length of rope. He continued, “The Shah has professed you a traitor to the righteous kingdom and has ordered your immediate arrest.” 

The Daroga interjected, stepping between the two, “Rahim, certainly it does not have to come to—“

Rahim diverted his path to instead grab onto the front of the Daroga’s robe and muscle him to the wall, staring down at him. “I am under direct commands of the Shah, Daroga. My orders are your orders,” he sneered in a low voice. “We both know that you are currently unarmed. It would serve you best to obey. Your authority is lost here.”

At the assault, the Daroga matched the boring stare and kept his chin high, gritting his teeth. Shoving the offending hands away, he stepped away several feet. He glared at his assailant with malice. His silence, however, only further impugned Erik’s confidence in his supposed ally. 

With the apparent subjugation of his opponent, a flick of Rahim’s fingers had the rest of his guard pouring into the room, surrounding them all, appearing wary to approach. Finally, in what would be a grievous mistake, one stepped forward and slapped a bold hand on Erik’s shoulder, pressing down in an attempt to bring him to his knees. 

But that hand no longer belonged to a lowly guard in service to the Shah. No, it was the hand of a disgraced, desperate mother who refused touch to him unless it was to punish. It was the strangling grip of the clergyman determined to excise the demons from his damned soul. It was the endless fists of the suspicious, drunken shopkeeper whose fear equated only to violence, and then it was every reaching grasp of the faceless crowd, furiously trying to drag the monster from its cage. Finally, It was the shameful hold of a master who had gone too many months without the appropriate, willing company. 

It was a thousand blows and a thousand fears, but Erik could do now what he could never then. 

Rage overtook him, blocking out both the worst of the pain and the last of his senses, raw instinct in its stead.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank hopsjollyhigh and mendedpixie for some of the head canons that inspired later parts of this story and for giving me permission to elaborate on them here. Please look for their stories, because they are both very talented authors themselves and deserve all the recognition they get and so much more.


End file.
